At my grandmother’s 85th birthday, my wife whispered, “Grab your bag. We’re leaving…

 

 

 

 

At my grandmother’s 85th birthday, my wife whispered, “Grab your bag. We’re leaving.” Minutes later, in the car, she locked the doors and trembled, “There’s something wrong in that house.” I called the police. “What they found sent my whole family into panic.” My wife’s fingernails dug into my forearm hard enough to leave marks.

 “We need to leave,” Sarah whispered, her breath hot against my ear. “Right now, don’t ask questions. Just grab your coat and walk out.” We were standing in my grandmother’s living room at her 85th birthday party. 43 people crowded into the house. Aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbors. A massive sheetcake sat on the dining room table.

 White frosting with pink roses spelling out happy 85th Grandma Helen. Myar balloons bumped against the ceiling. Someone’s kid was crying in the kitchen. Frank Sinatra played from the ancient stereo system. Normal. Everything was completely normal except Sarah’s face was the color of paper. Her hands were shaking and she was pulling me toward the door like the house was on fire.

 Sarah, what? Not here. Her voice cracked. Please, Marcus, trust me, we need to go now. I’d been married to Sarah for 6 years. I’d seen her calm through job loss, through her father’s death, through a car accident that totaled our Honda. I’d never seen her look like this. Terrified, panicked, like she’d seen something that broke reality.

 I grabbed our coats from the pile on the guest bed, made excuses to my aunt Linda about Sarah feeling sick, walked out the front door into the cold November evening with Sarah’s hand locked around mine like a vice. She didn’t say anything until we were in the car, until the doors were locked, until she’d started the engine and pulled away from the curb.

 Then she just sat there at the first stop sign, gripping the steering wheel, breathing like she’d just run a marathon. Sarah, what the hell is going on? There’s something very wrong in that house. She stared straight ahead at the empty street. Your uncle Richard, your cousin Amber. I heard them talking in the office. My stomach dropped.

 Talking about what? Your grandmother. She turned to look at me, tears in her eyes. Marcus, they’re drugging her. They’re stealing everything there. Her voice broke. They’re destroying her. The world tilted sideways. I’d known my uncle Richard my entire life. He was my dad’s older brother, 58 years old, worked in real estate, lived in a big house in Riverside.

 He’d been helping take care of Grandma Helen for the past 3 years, ever since grandpa died, and she’d started having trouble managing alone. Amber was Richard’s daughter, 29 years old, worked as a parallegal, lived with Richard, and helped him with grandma’s affairs. They were family. They were the good guys, the ones who showed up.

 The ones who made sure grandma got to her doctor appointments and paid her bills on time and didn’t fall behind on her medications. Sarah, that’s insane. Richard has been I heard them. Her voice was still now. Sharp. Certain. I went looking for a bathroom. The hallway bathroom was occupied. Someone told me there was another one down the hall.

 The office door was cracked open. I heard Richard’s voice. What did he say? She signs tonight whether she wants to or not. Sarah’s hands were white knuckled on the wheel. Then Amber said, “I already forged the last set.” She was too confused to notice. My mouth went dry. Richard said something about lawyers, about timing, about making sure everything transferred before anyone caught on.

 Then Amber said, Sarah closed her eyes. No mistakes this time. Everything needs to be clean. Jesus Christ. I looked through the crack in the door. There’s a desk covered in papers, legal documents, property transfers. I saw power of attorney forms, a will, all dated within the last 2 weeks. I sat there trying to process it, trying to make it make sense.

 Maybe it’s legitimate estate planning. Maybe grandma asked them to. Marcus, Sarah grabbed my face, made me look at her. Where is your grandmother right now? I thought about it, pictured the party, the crowded living room, the dining room full of people, the kitchen where the kids were playing. I hadn’t seen grandma, not since we’d arrived.

 Richard said she was resting, I said slowly. That the party was too much stimulation, that she needed quiet time in her room. At her own birthday party, she’s 85. She gets tired. When’s the last time you actually saw her? Talked to her. I tried to remember. Thanksgiving. 3 weeks ago. How did she seem? Tired. Confused.

 She kept asking the same questions. Richard said it was normal aging. Maybe early dementia. Sarah started the car again, drove two blocks, pulled into a 7-Eleven parking lot. Call the police, Sarah. Call them right now. Tell them you have reason to believe an elderly woman is being abused.

 Tell them you overheard a conversation about forged documents. Tell them you need a welfare check immediately. If I’m wrong, what if you’re right? She grabbed my hand. What if we drive away right now and they get her to sign something tonight? What if tomorrow she wakes up and her house is gone? Her money is gone. Her entire life is gone. And I pulled out my phone.

 My hand was shaking so badly I could barely dial. 911. Dispatch answered on the second ring. 911. What’s your emergency? I I need to report possible elder abuse. My grandmother. I think my uncle is drugging her and forging documents. What’s the address, sir? I gave them grandma’s address, explained what Sarah had overheard.

 The dispatcher’s voice changed, got sharper, more focused. Officers are on route. ETA 12 minutes. Stay on the line. Are you at the location now? No, we left. We’re two blocks away. Is the alleged abuser still at the residence? Yes, it’s a birthday party. There are 40 people there. Sir, do not return to the residence. Wait for officers to arrive.

 Can you meet them at the corner? We drove back, parked across the street from grandma’s house, watched through the windshield as the party continued, lights on in every window, silhouettes moving past curtains. Someone opened the front door, probably leaving, and music spilled out. Laughter, the sounds of celebration. Sarah gripped my hand.

 Neither of us spoke. At 7:47 p.m., two police cruisers turned onto the street. Lights off, no sirens. They pulled up in front of the house. Four officers got out. Two approached the front door. Two went around back. The officer in front rang the doorbell. Long pause. The door opened. I recognized my aunt Linda’s shape in the doorway.

 She looked confused. One of the officers showed her his badge, started talking. Oh god, I whispered. What if we’re wrong? We’re not wrong, Sarah said. Linda stepped back. Let the officers inside. The front door stayed open. More silhouettes, raised voices now. The music cut off. Then one of the officers rushed back out, spoke urgently into his radio, ran back inside.

 “That’s not good,” Sarah said. 2 minutes later, an ambulance turned onto the street, lights flashing. It pulled into grandma’s driveway. Paramedics grabbed equipment and ran inside. My stomach dropped through the floor of the car. Marcus, “I’m so sorry,” Sarah whispered. “I’m so so sorry. I couldn’t breathe. couldn’t think, just watched as more officers arrived, as yellow tape went up, as neighbors came out onto their porches.

As my family members started filing out of the house, confused and scared, gathering on the front lawn. A third police car arrived. This one had detective written on the side. A woman in plain clothes got out. Late 40s, black, carrying a notebook. She went straight inside. At 8:14 p.m., the paramedics came back out.

 They had a stretcher. Someone was on it, small, frail, oxygen mask, IV, already running. Grandma Helen. I was out of the car before I realized I was moving. Running across the street. A uniformed officer caught me before I reached the ambulance. Sir, you need to stay back. That’s my grandmother. What happened to her? Are you Marcus Henderson? Yes.

Dispatch said you called this in. I need you to talk to Detective Morrison. She’s inside. I need to see my grandmother. The paramedics are taking care of her. She’s stable, but I need you to talk to the detective now. He led me into the house. The living room was empty now, except for three officers, the detective, and my uncle Richard.

 Richard saw me. His face went from shocked to furious in half a second. You He took a step toward me. An officer blocked him. You called the cops on your own family. Mr. Henderson, step back, the officer said. What did you tell them? What lies did you make up? Detective Morrison. I could see her name tag.

 Now step between us. Mr. Henderson, I’m going to need you to calm down. And you? She looked at me. Marcus Henderson. Yes. Come with me. She led me to the office. Sarah had been right. The desk was covered in papers, legal documents in neat stacks, a laptop open, file folders, everything labeled and organized like some kind of corporate filing system.

 Walk me through what happened, Detective Morrison said. From the beginning, I told her everything about Sarah hearing the conversation. About the forged documents, about grandma being hidden in a back room at her own birthday party. Where’s your wife now? In the car. I’ll need her statement, too. But first, do you know anything about your grandmother’s medical condition? Her medications. Richard handles all that.

He has power of attorney for healthcare. When did he get that? I don’t know. A year ago, maybe longer. She nodded, made notes. Your grandmother was found in the back bedroom. She was heavily sedated, barely responsive. The paramedics found an empty prescription bottle on the nightstand.

 

 

 

 

 Zulpedum generic ambient prescribed to Helen Anderson. According to the label, it was filled 5 days ago. 30 pills. The bottle is empty. My legs went weak. I sat down hard in the office chair. 30 pills in 5 days. I said the normal dose is one pill at bedtime. Someone has been giving her six pills per day to keep her compliant.

 That’s what it looks like. We’re running blood work now, but based on her presentation, slurred speech, confusion, inability to stay awake, I’d say she’s been over sedated for days, maybe weeks. I looked at the papers on the desk, really looked at them. Property transfer deed, dated November 18th, 5 days ago.

 Quit claim deed transferring grandma’s house from Helen Anderson to Richard Anderson. Notorized, signed with grandma’s signature. Except I’d seen grandma’s signature my whole life. Christmas cards, birthday checks. This one was shaky. Wrong. The letters too big. The angle’s all off. That’s not her signature, I said.

 Detective Morrison picked up the document with gloved hands. Put it in an evidence bag. We’re going to need a handwriting expert to confirm that. But between you and me, I’ve seen enough forgeries to spot one. 12. She pointed to other documents. Power of attorney signed two weeks ago. New will signed last week. Everything leaving the estate to Richard and Amber Anderson. Bank account authorizations.

Investment account transfers. Someone has been systematically transferring every asset your grandmother owns. How much are we talking about? Based on what I’m seeing here, the house is worth about $680,000. Bank statements show savings accounts with combined balances around $340,000. Investment accounts another $180,000.

She owns a rental property in Anaheim worth maybe $500,000. We’re looking at over $1.7 million in assets. I felt sick. Richard’s been stealing from her. Richard’s been liquidating her entire life and based on the timeline, tonight was supposed to be the final step. What do you mean? She pointed to a calendar on the desk.

 November 24th, tonight had been circled in red. Notes in the margin, final signatures, transfer to escrow, close accounts, Monday. Monday is when the banks open. If everything had been signed tonight, Richard could have walked into the bank Monday morning with power of attorney and drained every account. The house sale would have closed Tuesday.

 By Wednesday, your grandmother would have had nothing. Oh my god, Mr. Dr. Henderson, I need to ask you something. Did anyone else in your family know about this? I don’t know. My aunt Linda saw papers weeks ago. Richard told her it was estate planning. Anyone else acting suspicious? Helping Richard? Covering for him? His daughter Amber.

 My wife heard them both talking. Detective Morrison nodded. Amber Anderson. She’s being questioned by another officer right now. There was shouting from outside. Through the window, I saw Richard on the front lawn yelling at officers. My family members stood in clusters on the sidewalk, watching, confused, scared, angry.

 What happens now? I asked. Now we arrest Richard and Amber Anderson for elder abuse, fraud, forgery, and theft. We seize all documents as evidence. We get your grandmother to a hospital for full evaluation, and we start unwinding whatever damage they’ve done. Can you undo it if they already transferred things? Most of it.

 Banks are pretty good about reversing fraudulent transfers once we prove incapacity and forgery. The house sale can be stopped. It hasn’t closed yet. We’ll get most of it back, but it’s going to take time. I heard Sarah’s voice outside giving her statement to an officer. “I could see her through the window, arms wrapped around herself, still shaking.

” “Your wife saved her life,” Detective Morrison said quietly. “If she hadn’t heard that conversation, if you hadn’t called when you did, this would have been done by midnight.” “Clean transfer, legal documentation. By the time anyone figured it out, the money would have been gone. Richard would have dumped her in a nursing home, probably with no assets to pay for it. Medicaid facility.

She would have died in a state home, thinking her family had abandoned her. I put my head in my hands. He’s my uncle. I’ve known him my entire life. That’s usually how it goes. Elder abuse is almost always family. The people with access, the people who are trusted. She closed her notebook.

 Come on, let’s get you outside. You’re going to want to be there when they take your uncle into custody. We walked out onto the front lawn. The whole family was there now. My dad, Richard’s younger brother, stood near the street, face white with shock. My aunt Linda was crying. Cousins whispered to each other. Neighbors watched from porches.

 Richard stood in the middle of it all, arguing with two officers. This is ridiculous. I’m her son. I’m taking care of her. These are all legitimate estate planning documents. Sir, your mother was found heavily sedated. The medication bottle shows she should have had 25 pills remaining. It’s empty. She must have taken extra. She’s been confused lately.

That’s why we need the power of attorney. Sir, we found forged signatures on multiple documents. That’s not forgery. I was helping her sign things. She has arthritis. She asked me to guide her hand. Amber appeared then being led out by another officer. Her hands were cuffed behind her back. She was crying, mascara running down her face. Dad, tell them, she screamed.

 Tell them we were just helping grandma. Richard’s face twisted. Shut up, Amber. You said she wouldn’t remember. You said it was easy money. You said I said shut up. The entire family went silent. 43 people standing on that lawn. Everyone hearing Amber throw her father under the bus.

 Everyone understanding what had been happening. My aunt Linda broke first. Started sobbing. loud, ugly, wrenching sobs. I saw the papers. I saw them weeks ago. Richard said it was estate planning. I believed him. Oh, God. I believed him. My dad walked up to Richard, his older brother. His face was stone. How could you do this to mom? I wasn’t doing anything to her.

 I was helping her, taking care of her finances. She can’t manage alone anymore. You were drugging her. You were forging her signature. You were stealing everything she had. It would have been mine anyway. When she died, I was just just accelerating the process. The words hung there. accelerating the process. Like grandma was an inconvenient step between Richard and money.

 Like her life was something to be hurried along. Detective Morrison stepped forward. Richard Anderson, you’re under arrest for elder abuse, fraud, forgery, and grand theft. You have the right to remain silent. She continued reading him his rights while another officer cuffed him. Richard’s face went from red to purple to white, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. This is a mistake.

This is all a huge mistake. I’m her son. I have rights. They led him to a police car, put him in the back seat. His eyes found mine through the window as they drove past. Pure hatred, pure disbelief, pure rage. He’d never thought he’d get caught. Had probably been planning this for years, building up the documentation, creating the narrative of grandma’s decline, positioning himself as the responsible son, taking care of his aging mother.

 He definitely never thought his nephew’s wife would be the one to bring him down. Amber went in a different car, still crying, still screaming. I didn’t want to do it. He made me. He said grandma was going to die soon anyway. He said it wasn’t really stealing. The cars pulled away. The yellow tape stayed up. The birthday party, the cake, the balloons, the presents sat abandoned inside a house that was now a crime scene.

 Sarah appeared at my side, put her arm around my waist. How are you doing? I don’t know. Numb, I guess. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I dragged you into this. You saved her life. I almost didn’t say anything. When I heard them talking, I almost convinced myself I’d misunderstood, that I was overreacting, that it was none of my business. But you did say something.

She nodded, leaned her head against my shoulder. My dad approached Marcus. Sarah, thank you. If you hadn’t, he couldn’t finish. Just pulled us both into a hug. Around us, the family was fracturing. Some people were crying, some were angry, some were defending Richard. He couldn’t have known. Maybe it was a misunderstanding.

 The police are overreacting. My aunt Linda wasn’t one of them. She was talking to Detective Morrison, giving a statement about the papers she’d seen, the conversations Richard had with her, the times he’d kept people away from grandma, claiming she was having a bad day or too confused for visitors. I pulled out my phone, called the hospital.

 It took 15 minutes of being transferred before I finally reached someone who would talk to me. Helen Anderson was admitted at 8:27 p.m. The nurse said she’s in the ER currently undergoing evaluation. Are you family? Her grandson. Hold on. Muffled conversation, then a new voice. Male authoritative. This is Dr. James Cartwright, attending physician.

 You’re Helen Anderson’s grandson. Yes. Marcus Henderson. Your grandmother is stable but heavily sedated. We’ve drawn blood work. The initial results show extremely elevated levels of zulpadm in her system. We’re also seeing signs of dehydration and malnutrition. How long has she been living like this? I don’t know, weeks, maybe months.

 

 

 

 

 My uncle was her primary caregiver. The uncle who’s been arrested? Yes. Well, he’s been systematically poisoning her. The dosage she’s been given would keep most people unconscious for days. She’s lucky she didn’t stop breathing. He paused. We’re going to keep her overnight for observation, possibly longer. She’ll need detox protocol to clear the medication from her system.

 And we’re going to need a full cognitive evaluation once she’s clear-headed. But I can tell you right now, whatever your uncle told you about dementia, that wasn’t dementia. That was drug induced impairment. She’s going to be okay. Physically, yes. Mentally, he sighed. That’s going to depend on how she processes what happened.

 Learning that her own son did this to her. That’s trauma. Real significant trauma. I thanked him, hung up, stood there on the lawn of my grandmother’s house trying to process everything. Sarah squeezed my hand. What did they say? She’s going to live. But Richard wasn’t just stealing from her. He was poisoning her.

 Keeping her so drugged she couldn’t think straight. Couldn’t question what he was doing. Couldn’t fight back down. Jesus. My cousin Jennifer Richard’s younger sister’s daughter walked up. She was 32. Worked as a nurse. Is it true about Uncle Richard? Yeah, I knew something was wrong. I kept trying to visit grandma and he always had excuses.

 She was sleeping. She was having a bad day. The doctor said no visitors. I thought he was just being overprotective. He was hiding her all those times. He said she was confused, asking the same questions, forgetting things. That wasn’t real, was it? The doctor says, “No, it was the drugs.” Jennifer covered her mouth.

 Oh my god. We all believed him. We all thought she was declining. We felt sorry for him for having to deal with it. That’s what he wanted. I’m a nurse. I should have seen it. I should have known. You trusted him. We all did. More family members approached, asking questions, crying, angry, confused. The party had turned into something else.

 A crisis, a reckoning. My aunt Linda pulled me aside. Marcus, I need to tell you something. About a month ago, Richard asked me to witness a document, a power of attorney form. He said grandma wanted to sign it, but needed a witness. I signed it. I didn’t read it carefully. I just I trusted him. It’s not your fault. It is.

 I should have asked more questions. Should have made sure she understood what she was signing. Should have talked to her without Richard there. But I didn’t. I just signed it. Did you see her sign it? I saw her hand moving, but Richard was Richard was holding her hand, guiding it. He said her arthritis made it hard for her to write.

 I thought he was helping her. He was forging her signature. Linda started crying again. I helped him. I witnessed a forgery. I’m going to have to testify to that, aren’t I? Probably. Good. I want to I want everyone to know what he did. By 10:30 p.m., the police had finished processing the scene. They’d boxed up all the documents, photographed everything, taken statements from a dozen family members.

 Detective Morrison told us they were building a case that would likely result in multiple felony charges. How long will he go to prison for? My dad asked. Elder abuse is a felony. Fraud is a felony. Grand theft is a felony. We’re looking at each forged document as a separate count. Conservatively, he’s looking at 10 to 15 years if convicted.

Maybe more if your mother wants to pursue civil charges, too. She will, my dad said. Once she’s better, once she understands what he did, she’ll pursue every charge possible. Sarah and I left around 11 p.m., drove home in silence, both too exhausted to speak. “I keep thinking about the party,” Sarah said as we pulled into our driveway.

 All those people, the cake, the presents, and the whole time she was in that back room, drugged, trapped, probably scared. She didn’t even know it was her birthday party. Do you think she knew what was happening? What Richard was doing? I don’t know. I hope not. I hope she was too confused to understand. But I had a feeling she did know on some level that she’d been aware her son was hurting her, taking things from her, making her sign papers she didn’t understand, and she’d been powerless to stop it.

 The next 3 months were a legal nightmare. Richard and Amber were charged with 14 felonies combined. Richard made bale used his own house as collateral, but had a GPS monitor. Amber stayed in jail. She couldn’t make her $100,000 bail. The forensic accountants report was devastating. Richard had stolen $847,000 over 18 months.

 He’d been forging Grandma’s signature on checks, making wire transfers, selling off her investments, and pocketing the proceeds. The house sale was the final piece, another $680,000 that would have put him over $1.5 million in total theft. He’d spent most of it, new cars, a boat, gambling debts, a time share in Mexico.

 By the time police caught him, there was maybe $200,000 left. Grandma spent 2 weeks in the hospital. The detox was hard. She had withdrawal symptoms from the medication, confusion, anxiety, night terrors. Doctor Cartwright said it was like coming off a month’s long bender. When she finally cleared, when her mind was sharp again, the cognitive evaluation showed she was fine.

 No dementia, no cognitive impairment, just an 85year-old woman who’d been systematically drugged by her own son. I visited her on day 16. She was sitting up in bed, looking more like herself, thinner than I remembered, frailer, but her eyes were clear. Marcus, she said when I walked in, they told me what you and Sarah did. Sarah figured it out.

 I just made the call. You saved my life. Her voice cracked. My own son was killing me, and you saved me, Grandma. Richard came to see me two days before the party,” she said quietly. I wasn’t as drugged that day. I could think clearly for a few hours. He brought papers for me to sign. I asked what they were.

 He said estate planning, making things easier when I die. But I looked at one of them. It was a deed. Transferring my house to him. What did you do? I refused to sign. I told him I wanted my own lawyer to review everything. He got angry. So angry he said I was being difficult, that I was confused, that I didn’t understand what I was reading. She looked at me.

 That night, he gave me extra pills. I don’t remember much after that. Just fog. Days of fog. And when I woke up, I was in the hospital. He was going to take everything. I know. The police showed me all the forged documents. My handwriting, but not my handwriting. He practiced it. Got good at copying my signature.

 Good enough to fool the banks. It’s over now. He can’t hurt you anymore. My own son. She started crying. Quiet tears. I gave birth to him, raised him, loved him his entire life, and he looked at me and saw nothing but money. I held her hand. Didn’t know what to say because she was right. Richard had seen his mother as an obstacle, an inconvenience, a vault to be cracked.

“The lawyer says I can get most of the money back,” Grandma continued. The banks are reversing the transfers. Insurance might cover some of the rest, but Marcus, the money doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’m alone now. I had two sons. Your father is wonderful, but Richard, she shook her head. He’s dead to me.

 I will never speak to him again, and that means I’ve lost a son. You haven’t lost him. He lost you by choice, by his own actions. I keep thinking about Amber. She helped him. My granddaughter. I used to babysit her. I taught her to ride a bike and she forged my signature. Helped her father drug me. Steal from me.

 She’s facing charges, too. She’ll go to prison. Good. The hardness in her voice surprised me. They should both go to prison. They should both suffer for what they did. The trial happened in March. Richard pleaded not guilty. Amber took a plea deal, testified against her father in exchange for a reduced sentence. Her testimony was devastating.

 She described how Richard had started planning this three years ago, right after grandpa died. How he’d gradually increased grandma’s medications, created a paper trail of confusion and memory problems, positioned himself as the responsible caregiver so no one questioned his control. She described forging signatures at least 40 times over 18 months.

 Practice sheets where she copied grandma’s handwriting until she got it perfect. Richard looking over her shoulder, coaching her. Shakier, she’s old. Make it look shakier. She described the parties, how Richard would drug grandma extra on days when family was visiting, keep her in the back bedroom, tell everyone she was having a bad day, all to maintain the illusion that she was declining, and she described the plan for that final night.

 The birthday party was covered. Everyone gathered, distracted, while Richard got grandma to sign the last documents in the back bedroom. If Sarah hadn’t heard them, if we hadn’t called the police, it would have worked. The jury deliberated for 4 hours, found Richard guilty on all counts. elder abuse, fraud, forgery, grand theft, financial exploitation of an elder. Sentencing was 2 months later.

The judge was a woman in her 60s who’d clearly seen enough of this type of case. “Mr. Anderson,” she said, looking at Richard over her glasses. “You systematically abused, drugged, and robbed your own mother. You did this over a period of 18 months. You enlisted your daughter’s help. You manipulated your entire family.

 You created elaborate lies to cover your crimes. You showed no remorse, no empathy, no recognition that your mother is a human being deserving of dignity and respect. Richard stood there in his orange jumpsuit, GPS monitor on his ankle, looking smaller than I’d ever seen him. The state recommends 12 years. The defense asks for probation and restitution.

 I’m sentencing you to 14 years in state prison. No possibility of parole before serving at least 10 years. Additionally, you will pay full restitution to your mother for all stolen funds estimated at $847,000 plus legal fees and damages totaling $1.2 million. If you cannot pay, your assets will be seized and liquidated. Richard’s lawyer objected.

 The judge overruled. Sentence stood. Amber got 6 years. She’d be out in four with good behavior. Grandma got her house back, got most of her money back, sold the rental property, and put the proceeds in a trust managed by my dad and aunt Linda. hired a full-time caregiver, a wonderful woman named Rosa, who moved into the guest room and took care of everything.

 Sarah and I visited every Sunday.