I’d been imagining this moment for months. Finally it was here. The big reveal. “Dad, you are going to love this,” I said, swinging open the door to the in-law suite we had spent the winter building off our garage. “Surprise!”
My husband, Jeff, had put down new carpet in the sitting area. The walls gleamed with fresh paint. My college-age daughter, Jess, had added some big potted houseplants. There was a desk for Dad to write at and a comfy leather armchair and matching footstool where he could read his Bible. Perfect! It was March 2019, and I’d flown to Florida days earlier to help Dad drive home to Indiana after his two-month winter vacation. At 93, he wasn’t as comfortable driving long distances anymore, and I was happy for the time together.
Somehow I had managed to keep the secret to myself all those hours in the car. It went back to the promise I’d made to Mom just before she died eight months earlier. “It will be okay. You can go now,” I’d whispered. “I’ll take care of Dad.” Mom’s eyes had met mine, and I knew she understood. God had given me the chance to help Mom pass peacefully. In a way, I felt I owed it to him as much as her to keep that promise.
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