The nursing home smells of lemon-scented cleaner and medication. It’s oddly comforting and a far cry from the sterile hospital scent that most people expect.
I’ve been here long enough for this to feel like home, maybe even more so than any of the foster homes I bounced between growing up.
I was only supposed to be here for a few months to get some volunteer hours under my belt and boost my university application.
Straight after school, I wanted to work for a few years to make enough money to get into a university and fend for myself.
“I understand that you need to work for a while, Vaughn,” Dorothy, the school guidance counselor, told me. “But don’t put off university for too long.
The longer you wait, the more you’ll just put it off.”
I agreed.
I’d heard too many stories of people with big aspirations just letting life pass them by because they didn’t have time anymore.
So, I worked as a personal assistant to a mom-influencer. It was stressful work, but she paid me well, and I could leave work at 3 p.m.
every day. That’s how I ended up at the nursing home after those hours.
That was three years ago.
Now, I’m 25 and still working here most days of the week.
And the strange part? I don’t regret it. With its creaky floors and echoing hallways, this place has become a refuge.
But last week, something happened that made me question almost everything I knew.
It was Tuesday, late afternoon, and I was making my usual rounds.
Everyone had eaten their early dinners and retreated to their rooms, ready for some rest before they came together for bingo night.
Room after room, I checked on the residents, adjusting pillows, offering smiles, listening to the same stories I’d heard a hundred times. Then, I passed Mrs.
Coleman’s door. I’d seen her before, a lovely woman.
She was quiet and 90 years old, always sitting by the window, staring like she was waiting for something.
Or someone.
I had no plans to stop by Mrs. Coleman that day, mainly because she was on the side of the corridor that wasn’t my responsibility. But as I walked past her door, she reached out and grabbed my arm with surprising strength.
“I know you!” she whispered, her eyes sharp.
At first, I assumed it was the dementia.
It’s not uncommon here.
Residents often think I’m their granddaughter or a nurse from years ago.
I smiled, gently removing Mrs. Coleman’s hand from my arm as we shuffled to her chair.
“I’m sure you do, Mrs.
Coleman,” I said, trying to keep my tone soft with her. “I’m Vaughn, remember?
I’ve been working here for a while.
I made you some ginger tea a few times.”
She smiled. “I know,” she said. “But that’s not it.
I know you.
You used to live next door to me. You were just a little girl then.
Five or six years old, maybe.”
I froze. Next door?
That couldn’t be right.
I barely remembered the names of my foster families, much less their neighbors. Still, something about her gaze held my attention.
“You don’t remember?” she asked, leaning forward in her chair. “You used to come over every year on my birthday.
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