A Suitcase of Promises: How I Sold My Father’s Hope for Peace

freedom.

Every Sunday, I went to visit him.

He would be there, sitting in that generic armchair in a room that smelled of industrial cleaner and pureed food. As soon as I walked in, his face would light up. The fog of dementia would clear for just a second, and he’d ask the same question.

“So, Davey? How’s the house? Did the contractors finish the bathroom continue reading …