PART 2 — The Day They Tried to Put Me Back in the Quiet
The morning after “Country Roads,” I woke up to the sound of my phone vibrating like it was trying to burrow through the mattress.
Not a polite buzz.
A full-body panic.
Twenty-seven missed calls from my son.
Nine voicemails.
And one text in all caps that made my stomach drop:
WE ARE COMING. DO NOT LEAVE THE APARTMENT.
I lay there staring at the ceiling, listening to the apartment breathe. Somewhere down the hall, Mia’s alarm kept chirping because she’d slept through it again. The radiator hissed like an old man with opinions. In the kitchen, someone—probably Leo—had left the cabinet door open, as if the cabinet needed fresh air.
Life.
Noise.
Future.
And yet my son’s text read like a raid was about to happen.
I shuffled into the kitchen in my socks and found Jackson at the table, hair sticking up, eyes locked on his phone like it owed him money.
He looked up. “House Pop… you’re trending again.”
“Again?” I croaked, reaching for the coffee.
He turned the screen toward me.
There I was, on the tiny stage under a neon sign, singing my heart out, eyes closed, hands gripping the microphone like it was the last solid thing in the world. The caption over my head said:
“MY DAD MOVED IN WITH COLLEGE KIDS AND HE’S HAPPY???”
Below that—thousands of comments.
Half of them made my throat tighten in a good way:
“I’d give anything to have my grandpa back.”
“This is the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Normalize older people having lives!”
“The loneliness epidemic is real.”
And then the other half.
The kind that turns your stomach because you realize the internet doesn’t just watch. It judges. It labels. It prosecutes.
“This is weird.”
“Why is a 74-year-old living with young adults?”
“Those kids are using him.”
“He’s probably creepy.”
“Boomers will do anything except go to therapy.”
“Imagine your roommate’s grandpa telling you to clean the sink.”
I took a long sip of coffee.
It tasted like ash and truth.
Jackson’s face tightened. “People are being… gross.”
“People are being people,” I said.
“But—” he started.
I held up a hand. “Jackson. I survived an era when we thought carpet in bathrooms was a good idea. I can survive comments from strangers.”
He looked like he wanted to throw his phone into the toaster.
That’s when the pounding started.
Not a knock.
A pounding.
Like the door had done something wrong and needed to confess.
Jackson froze.
Mia stumbled out of her room, messy bun, hoodie, eyes puffy. “Why does it sound like the FBI—”
Leo appeared behind her, blinking like a mole in daylight. “If that’s my ex, I swear—”
The pounding came again.
I walked to the door, not because I was brave, but because I was the oldest and therefore obligated by ancient law to deal with the scary sounds.
I opened it.
My son stood there with his wife beside him, clutching a folder like she was about to present a case in court. Behind them, two more people hovered—my daughter and her husband—faces pinched with that tight concern that feels like love but tastes like control.
And down the hallway, two neighbors peeked from behind their doors, eyes wide, hungry for drama.
My son’s voice hit me like a siren. “Dad.”
“Robert,” I said calmly. “You brought the whole committee.”
His wife stepped forward, smile too bright, eyes too sharp. “Frank. We need to talk.”
Mia whispered behind me, “House Pop, do you want us to—”
“No,” I said, still looking at my son. “This is family. The loud kind.”
Robert’s gaze swept over the apartment: the thrift-store couch, the mismatched mugs, the bowl of keys by the door, the pile of textbooks. He looked at Jackson and Leo like they were suspects. He looked at Mia like she was evidence.
Then he looked at me.
“You can’t live like this,” he said.
I leaned on the doorframe. “I’m not living like this. I’m living.”
His wife opened the folder. “We’re worried about your safety. Your health. Your… reputation.”
“Ah,” I said. “There it is.”
Robert’s face tightened. “Dad, you’re on the internet. People are talking. They’re saying—”
“Let me guess,” I said. “They’re saying I’m too old to have a life that doesn’t revolve around a recliner.”
He flinched like I’d slapped him.
His wife jumped in, voice smooth as a commercial. “No one is saying you can’t have a life. But this—this arrangement—”
“Say it,” I told her.
She hesitated, then said it anyway. “It’s inappropriate.”
The word hung in the air like smoke.
Inappropriate.
As if joy has an age limit.
As if loneliness is more respectable.
Mia’s eyes flashed. Leo shifted his weight like he was trying not to explode. Jackson’s jaw clenched so hard I could practically hear his molars filing down.
Robert pointed at the living room. “Dad, you don’t even know these people.”
I laughed once, short and sharp. “I know them better than I knew my neighbors for twenty years. Do you know how many times the man next door in the suburbs said my name? Twice. Once when he borrowed my ladder and once when he returned it broken.”
My daughter stepped forward, softer, trying for kindness. “Dad, we just… we miss you. We want you close.”
“I have a phone,” I said. “You can call it.”
Her eyes dropped.
Because we both knew how often they did.
Robert rubbed his forehead. “You don’t understand. This isn’t just about you being happy. It’s about what people think.”
I nodded slowly. “There it is again.”
“What?” he snapped.
“The thing Americans worship,” I said. “The invisible jury.”
His wife’s smile disappeared. “Frank, please don’t turn this into a speech.”
I tilted my head. “You came to my house with a folder. You turned it into a speech.”
She blinked.
Leo muttered, “Get her, House Pop.”
I ignored him.
Robert took a breath. “We found a community. It’s nice. Safe. People your age. Activities. A nurse on site.”
“A containment zone,” I said.
“It’s not a containment zone,” he said, too fast.
Jackson stepped forward, voice controlled but shaking. “Sir, with respect, Frank pays rent. He cooks. He helps us. He’s… family here.”
Robert glared at Jackson. “This isn’t your business.”
Jackson’s eyes flashed. “It became my business when he stopped looking like a ghost.”
Silence.
Even the radiator seemed to pause.
My son’s face changed—just for a second. Something old flickered there. The memory of me, maybe. The memory of his mother. The memory of a house that used to have laughter in it.
Then it hardened again.
“Dad,” Robert said, voice low, “you’re not thinking clearly.”
I took a step closer so he could see my eyes.
“I have never been clearer,” I said.
His wife opened the folder again, voice getting careful—the kind of careful people use when they’re trying to sound reasonable while doing something cruel.
“We’ve spoken to someone,” she said. “Just to understand options. In case you’re… vulnerable.”
I stared at her.
“Options,” I repeated.
Robert wouldn’t look at me now. He looked at the floor like it might rescue him.
My daughter’s hand flew to her mouth. “Karen—”
So my instincts had been right.
This wasn’t concern.
This was a plan.
I felt my chest tighten, not from fear, but from an old, familiar grief.
The grief of being treated like a problem to solve instead of a person to love.
I stepped back into the apartment and opened the door wider.
“Come in,” I said.
They hesitated, confused.
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