My son said he was taking me to renew my ID card “so I could get senior discounts.” but when the clerk checked my file, she went silent. two years earlier, someone had declared that I was no longer able to manage my own affairs. and the person allowed to make decisions for me wasn’t my son. it was his wife.
I was standing inside a county services office in Sacramento, holding my purse with both hands like it was the only thing keeping me upright.
The place smelled of printer paper, floor cleaner, and old coffee. People sat in plastic chairs, waiting for numbers to be called. A little boy was kicking his sneakers against his mother’s bag. An elderly man beside me kept folding and unfolding a receipt.
My son, Evan Whitmore, stood on my left.