Day fifty-one: the promised chocolate
For the first time since 27 July, Trudy had a visitor: the lifelong friend from the chocolate conversation, carrying the promised bar. Alert, glad — and unchanged in her determination: out of the closed facility, home or to a place in Gouda of her own choosing.
Today my mother had a visitor. The lifelong friend readers know from the post of 2 August — the chocolate conversation — stood at her bedside. The first familiar face since the visit of 27 July, over four weeks ago.
She found her alert. And glad — visibly glad that someone was there who knows her from before, from home, from her own street.
And she brought what she promised over three weeks ago: the bar of dark chocolate my mother had asked for herself. The smallest thing she dared to ask for, back then. Today it lay in her hands.
The visit broke the monotony she has been subjected to since 6 July — day after day, behind the same locked door. For one afternoon, everything was briefly different: a familiar voice, a reminder of her own life, chocolate.
And her determination? Unchanged. If anything, stronger than ever. Her wish, once more in her own words: out of the closed facility. Home — or to a suitable place in Gouda, close to her own people. Her choice. As the law intends.
The family is stepping up the pace. Every official road that stands open is being walked — in parallel, not one after another. And alongside it: those who caused this situation will answer for it, through the channels that exist for exactly that. Not out of revenge. Out of principle. Because a clear-minded woman of eighty-three does not belong behind a locked door for fifty-one days without anyone explaining why.
This is day fifty-one. She asked us to keep pushing. Today she tasted chocolate, and saw a face from home. 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.