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Marge had gone ahead of time to see that all the preparations had been made and Troy was to bring me over around noon. It was one of those drab February days where it's not quite snowing, but looks like it will any minute. Troy picked me up in his new Blazer and I could tell that he was trying to be jolly. It was a rather unnatural act, as he's never been a good bluffer. "Well, Mother, are you ready for your big adventure?"

I sniffed. "I've never been the adventurous sort. I still don't know why you and Marge insist on this move." I hoped he could hear the stubbornness in my voice. I could see the jolly smile slip a little.

"But we've been telling you about this for months. Just the other day you said you were ready for a change."

I sighed. "Fine, fine. Just put your old mother in a home and forget about her." I made a big show of gathering my things and taking one last look around the cottage. It was getting difficult to get around these days, but I tried not let Troy see that my knees were being less than cooperative. He took my arm and we took small steps down the path to the Blazer.

"Here, let me help you up." He hoisted me into the passenger seat and walked around the back of the vehicle to stow my suitcases.

I felt that silence would have been appropriate for the drive over, but Troy was determined to make conversation. "So, mother, the kids have been asking about you. They would've been here today, but, you know how it is. Chloe had basketball practice and Clay had homework, but they told me to give their Grandma a big hug." Troy looked over at me expectantly.

"That's nice. Tell them I said hello." Truth be told, I wasn't feeling much like making conversation. This whole move had me feeling more nervous than I did before making the speech to the rotary club last year. This just seemed unnatural. Why not just let me die in my snug little cottage when the good Lord was ready to take me?

Home was a word that was supposed to conjure up images of biscuits and tea, faded photographs and worn quilts. A home was inviting and warm, not cold and sterile, like the facility they were set on checking me into. The only reason any of the folks there would know my name was because it was pasted to the door, not because they cared. My thumbnail caught the crack in the top of my cane and I thumped it resolutely. So they think I'll just go quietly, eh? Well, they had a surprise in store!

Learn more about this author, Sarah Defibaugh.
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