A ROOM FOR DAD
By AI-ChatGPT-T.Chr.-Human Synthesis - 10 March 2025
When he arrived, he carried only a small suitcase—two neatly folded shirts, a pair of well-worn slippers, his old leather wallet softened by years of use, and the flannel robe my mother had bought him decades ago.
That was all. No stacks of books, no cherished possessions, no framed photographs. Just the bare essentials. Yet, when he stepped inside, it felt as though he carried the weight of a lifetime with him. For the past month, this quiet man, aged 90, has been living in my home. He moves with a careful slowness now, each step deliberate, as if he’s measuring the distance between his past and his present.
His once-strong hands—hands that once built, fixed, held—now tremble as he lifts his coffee cup. His fingers, once sure and steady, fumble with buttons and spoons. He pauses at doorways, staring into spaces as if caught in the flickering glow of memories only he can see.
Most days, he sits by the window for hours, watching the trees sway with the wind. He doesn’t just look—he watches, deeply, as if the rustling leaves are speaking to him in a language only he remembers. Sometimes, he whispers back, his lips forming words I can’t quite hear. I wonder who he’s talking to. Old friends? My mother? The boy he once was?
He smiles at my children when they rush past him in a blur of energy, though sometimes he forgets their names. But when they slow down—when they crawl onto the couch beside him, when they press their small hands into his—his face lights up with recognition that goes beyond words.
At dinner, he still folds napkins with the same quiet precision he did when I was a child, his fingers moving out of habit, muscle memory filling in the spaces where certainty has begun to fade. And in the evenings, he hums along to the songs of his youth, melodies from records that haven’t spun in years.
He is not the same man who once held me steady on my first bicycle, running beside me until I found my balance. Not the man who built bookshelves with his own hands, who could fix anything with a tool kit and quiet determination. He is not the man who carried me on his shoulders so I could see the world from above.
But he is still my father.
And for the first time in my life, he needs me more than I need him.
At first, I didn’t know how to care for him. I was afraid. He had always been so independent, so sure-footed, so strong. The man who never asked for help now needed mine, and I wasn’t sure if I was ready. But something shifted. The fear gave way to something else—something quieter, deeper. Gratitude.
I make his favorite soup, the one he used to make for me when I was sick. I warm his slippers by the fire so his feet won’t get cold. I sit with him in the stillness of the night, holding his hand when restless dreams pull him from sleep. I tell him I love him, again and again, making up for all the times I didn’t say it enough before.
Time is slipping through our fingers, faster than I want it to. But instead of mourning what is fading, I hold on to what remains. For every moment. For every memory. For the chance to give back even a fraction of the love he has given me. I have gained a son who is 90 years old. And I will care for him, just as he once cared for me. Dad, stay with me as long as you can.
~ Source Unknown.
