14 hours. That is how long I was sleeping every single day. I used to be the kind of woman who woke up with the sun, ready to tend to my garden or balance my checkbook down to the last penny. I had been sharp my whole life. My mind was a steel trap, or so I liked to think. Then the doctors started me on these new little blue pills, and suddenly the days just started to blur together like a watercolor painting left out in the rain.

At the home, the nurses just patted my hand and told me it was my age. “You are 88, Faye,” they would say, as if that explained away the fact that I couldn’t even remember what I had for breakfast. My son, Robert, was the one who insisted on the change. He came by twice a week, always dressed in those expensive suits that made him look like he belonged on a billboard. He told me the doctor wanted to keep me calm because I had been getting, in his words, a bit confused. I trusted him. He was my boy.

My daughter, Clara, stopped coming around as much. I told myself she was just busy with her own life and her kids. I didn’t blame her, but the quiet in my room was becoming a physical weight. It sat on my chest like a heavy wool blanket.

I spent most of my time staring at the ceiling, wondering when the fog would lift, but it never did. I felt like a ghost haunting my own life.

Then, everything changed on a Tuesday. A young aide named Teresa, who usually worked the night shift, came into my room to help me get settled. She was a quiet girl, always humming little tunes under her breath, but that night she looked different. Her face was pale, and she kept glancing at the door like she expected someone to jump out from behind it. She finished tucking my blankets in, but she didn’t leave.

Instead, she sat down on the edge of my bed. She took my hand in hers and her skin felt cold. “I can’t stay quiet anymore,” she whispered. Her voice was barely a breath. “Those aren’t your heart pills, Faye.” I just stared at her, my brain struggling to catch up to the words. I thought maybe I had misheard her. “What did you say?” I asked, my voice sounding thin and small.

She squeezed my fingers tight. “Your son asked the doctor to add something to keep you quiet,” she said, her eyes welling up with tears. “He said you were becoming a burden.” I felt the blood drain from my face. I remembered signing those papers last week. My eyes had been so fuzzy that I couldn’t even read the headers. I had just signed where Robert pointed his finger. I trusted him with my life.