One week after my hip surgery, my daughter-in-law called and said, “You’re home anyway,” then dropped three kids and two overstuffed bags on my couch and vanished. By bedtime I’d noticed the tight belts, the quiet flinches, and how a twelve-year-old ran breakfast like a job. So I made soup, locked the door, and started writing everything down—because when Sunday came, I wasn’t going to smile and pretend again.
I’m Dorothy Mitchell—Dot if you’ve ever borrowed sugar from me—sixty‑eight years old, one week post–hip replacement, and this is the week my quiet Toledo house remembered how to be a home and a fortress at the same time. Still dizzy from pain medication and steadying myself on a walker a size too big, I…
