I retired last year, finally, after all those years building my career here, in a country that isn't my own (or wasn't originally, I suppose). Now my days are long and quiet, and all I can think about is my mother, getting older, becoming... less herself, back home. I call, of course, but it’s not the same, is it, as actually being there, holding her hand, helping with the little things. I made my choice, decades ago, and I don't know if I can live with the quiet knowledge that I wasn't there when she needed me most.
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