The Legacy of the Lonely

The hallways of Golden Oaks Retirement Estate smell of lavender and expensive despair.

It is a “five-star” facility. That’s what my son, Robert, told me when he signed the papers three years ago. “It’s like a resort, Dad,” he had said, checking his watch. “They have a golf simulator. You love golf.”

I haven’t played golf in ten years. My back won’t allow it. But Robert didn’t know that. Robert doesn’t know anything about me, other than the balance of my investment portfolio.

My name is Arthur Sterling. Today is my eighty-fifth birthday.

I sat in my wheelchair by the window…