Supper at seven. The good glasses come out every night.

My father ran a restaurant in Fort Worth for thirty years. The first night, the chef came out to his table and asked how the steak was. Dad said it was the first time in a year he had felt like himself.

We moved from a house in Colleyville with a pool we never used. Now we swim every morning, walk to Main Street for coffee and come home to a lobby with a fire going.

Lorraine sat with Mother for an hour before the move and wrote down how she likes her tea, her pillows and her radio station. It was all right on the first night.

I didn't expect a senior community to have a wine list. I certainly didn't expect it to be better than my brother-in-law's.

Gloria called me at three in the morning to say Dad had fallen, that he was fine, that the doctor had been called and that she would call again at seven. She did, at seven sharp.

I live in Chicago. Natalie gave me a video tour of Mom's suite on a Friday night with the piano playing in the background. I stopped worrying right there.

After my hip, I stayed five weeks in the respite suite and did therapy downstairs. I went home walking without a cane, and I'm on the waiting list for a Cabernet.

Mom has dementia in its early stages. The staff never rush her, never correct her in front of people and always save her seat by the window.

The concierge got us two seats on the GrapeFest wine train and a car to take us home after. I'm eighty-four. I felt thirty.

We have hosted three family birthdays in the private dining room. Rafael made my grandmother's pecan pie from her own recipe card.

The business office spent two afternoons helping us file Dad's long-term care insurance claim. It paid out in six weeks.