On the day we moved my mother into an assisted-living facility, the only reason I was able to tell her that she would see her home again was because I honestly believed it.
Over breakfast that morning, as she made her ritual tea in her own kitchen, she looked at the boxes and suitcases my sister and I had packed and repeatedly sought reassurance about our plans. “But I’ll be coming back eventually, right?” she asked.
“I hope so,” I told her, careful not to overpromise. “That’s the plan,” I said the next time she asked.