Part 1: The Man With No Visitors
Two years after my mother died, I began volunteering at a small hospice on the outskirts of town.
Whenever people asked why, I gave them the answer they expected.
“I want to help people during a difficult time.”
It sounded generous and admirable. It was also only half true.
The real reason was that I could no longer stand returning to my silent house every evening. My mother’s shoes were still tucked beneath the bench by the door. Her favorite mug remained in the cupboard. Sometimes I caught myself reaching for my phone to call her before remembering there was no one left to answer.
At the hospice, grief did not make people uncomfortable. No one told me to be strong, move forward, or focus on the good memories. Sadness belonged there. It was allowed to sit in the room without explanation.
That was where I met Nathan Cole.
