← All updates 2 August 2026 · 01:00 read

Day twenty-eight: dark chocolate

A lifelong friend spoke with Trudy for a quarter of an hour today. She settled at the sound of a familiar voice — and asked for one thing: a bar of dark chocolate. Her great wish is unchanged.

Illustration of the same care-facility room: a telephone on the bed with the receiver beside it, a bar of chocolate next to it; tulips and cards on the nightstand. An impression, not a photo of the actual situation.
Illustration — the smallest thing she dared to ask for. An impression, not a photo of the actual situation.

Today an old neighbor, a lifelong friend of the family, spoke with my mother for a quarter of an hour through the ward line.

At first she was very short of breath, the friend told me. But as the conversation went on, she settled. She grew calm listening to a voice she has known half her life, chatting on about ordinary things.

The friend asked if she could come by soon. And whether she could bring anything.

My mother asked for one thing: a bar of dark chocolate.

Eighty-three years old, behind a locked door, and the smallest thing she dares to ask for is a bar of chocolate. Her great wish is unchanged, and she still says it to everyone who calls: she wants to go home.

This is day twenty-eight. I write down what happens, because my mother cannot — and because a day will come when people ask how this was allowed to happen.

We are not done.