Apparently, that now included his own daughter.
Before I could respond, a shadow moved at the end of the hallway.
Dad shuffled slowly into the foyer.
And my breath caught.
Four months.
That was all it had been since I had last seen him.
Yet he looked like a different man.
He had lost at least thirty pounds.
His cheekbones protruded sharply beneath pale, sunken skin.
And despite the thermostat reading seventy-four degrees, Dad was swallowed inside a thick wool winter coat buttoned all the way to his chin.
Then his faded blue eyes found mine.
They immediately filled with tears.
But he didn’t come toward me.
He didn’t hug me.
He simply stood frozen on the rug, both hands buried deep inside his coat pockets.
Almost as though he was afraid to move.
Only when Chloe finally turned away and disappeared into the kitchen to make coffee did Dad seem to breathe again.
Twenty minutes later, Julian came home.
Almost immediately, my older brother launched into what sounded like a speech he had rehearsed a dozen times.
Sitting across from me at the dining table, he sighed heavily about everything he and Chloe had supposedly sacrificed to care for Dad.
The doctor appointments.
The expensive medication.
The groceries.
The emotional exhaustion.
The terrible burden of managing a declining parent.
Then Julian slid a notarized folder across the table.
A Durable Power of Attorney.
It gave him complete control over Dad’s pension, property deeds, and bank accounts.
My 78-year-old father recoiled in terror the moment I reached for the buttons of his heavy winter coat.
