Monday’s slot had three pills in it. There was supposed to be one.

I stood at my dad’s kitchen counter holding that little plastic pill box, and I counted them again like the number might change if I stared hard enough.

One. Two. Three. My dad takes one Ativan a day. So why was Monday backed up, and Tuesday behind it, and half the week stacked up like nobody had been handing him anything at all.

Let me back up, because I owe him that much.

My dad’s name is Ray. Everybody called him Big Ray, not because he was huge, but because he had a big everything. Big laugh. Big opinions about the Steelers. He did the crossword in pen every single morning and got mad if you touched it. The man could tell you the score of a game from 1987 and what he ate after. That was my dad. Sharp as a tack his whole life.

Then last spring he started forgetting little things. Where he put the car keys. A doctor’s appointment. One Sunday he called me Karen, and my name is not Karen. I laughed it off. He laughed too, but his eyes didn’t.

His wife Sandra noticed everything. She’d married my dad about four years after my mom passed, and honestly I never warmed up to her, but I told myself that was my problem, not hers. She seemed to take good care of him. She’d call me with updates. “He left the stove on again.” “He didn’t know what year it was this morning.” Always something new.

One night she sat me down at that same kitchen counter and folded her hands. “Honey, I think it’s time we discuss options.”

I knew what options meant. It meant a home.

We found one. Nice place, smelled like lemon cleaner and fake flowers.

Eighty-four hundred dollars a month. I almost choked when they said the number. Sandra patted my hand. “Don’t you worry about the money side. I’ll manage his accounts. You’ve got enough on your plate.”

And God help me, I let her. I was relieved, even. One less thing. I’m not proud of that part. I want to be honest here because if I clean myself up in this story then none of the rest of it means anything.

So we put him on the waiting list. I figured that was that. I figured I’d lost my dad slow, the way everybody loses their parents, and there was nothing to do but be sad about it.