My mom is 92 and, remarkably, still pretty independent.
She lives in her own home. She reads. She cooks. She putters. She watches her shows. She still insists she’s “fine.” And in many ways, she is.
But aging has a way of turning even “fine” into a team sport.
There are three of us sisters. We all love our mom fiercely. We all care deeply. We all show up — just in very different ways.
One sister lives a mile away. She’s the one who gets the phone call when the TV won’t work. The call when the internet is acting up. The “I feel a little dizzy” moments. The winter rides to doctor’s appointments when the roads are icy.