And then there’s the constant cloud of guilt that follows me around, hanging over my head and reminding me that I put my dad in an assisted living facility instead of keeping him home to take care of him myself.

I tried that, back when things with Dad were just starting to get bad, back when I assumed I could handle it all alone. I went to his house every morning and every night, and then, when I realized he was doing things like turning on the oven and forgetting about it, I started checking in during the day, too. When things got worse, I would come over to find him sitting in the yard, wondering how he got there, or staring into the pantry, completely forgetting what he came into the kitchen to do, or wandering around his garden in only his boxers and socks.

One day I went to check on him and found the front door wide open. I walked through the house, calling his name, trying not to panic and telling myself he was in the backyard. But he wasn’t. He wasn’t anywhere. It was a gray, rainy day, and as I stood there in the backyard figuring out what to do, I had one thought: I lost him. I screwed up and I wasn’t here and now the worst possible thing is going to happen.

I called the police, keeping my voice steady as I told them what happened. I tried not to think about the horror stories I’d heard, about people with Alzheimer’s who wandered off and got hurt or worse. And I hated myself for letting this happen.

The police found him a couple of harrowing hours later, wandering through a grocery store with a basket full of frozen food and insisting that he was just shopping for dinner. Outwardly, he seemed annoyed that I’d gone to all this fuss to hunt him down, but I saw the fear and confusion in his eyes.

Dad needed supervision 24/7, and the only way I could keep taking care of him myself was if I quit my job and moved in with him. I considered it. But while I might be patient and while I love my dad more than anything, I’m not a medical professional, and also I couldn’t afford to be jobless.

Cobbling together Dad’s social security, his veteran’s benefits, his savings (which I had to put in a trust so that he could qualify for veteran’s benefits, because this entire process has to be super confusing and time consuming), and my salary, I managed to afford a place with around-the-clock care where I know he’s safe and secure. This is the one thing in my life I had to outsource, and even knowing that he’s in the best place for him doesn’t ease my guilt. There’s still that little voice in my head, whispering, You should be taking care of him yourself.

I turn into the narrow driveway for my apartment (which is actually the carriage house behind the house where Annie lives with her uncle Don), debating what kind of pie I’m going to procrasti-bake tonight, when my headlights flash across a person. Two people. I slam on the brakes and scream, because this is it. This is the beginning of my murder story, the one that will eventually be told on the true-crime podcast about my death. Clearly whoever this is has been methodically stalking me for weeks—no, years!—and has finally come here to finish the deed, while Annie’s out of town and Uncle Don’s preoccupied with D&D and no one will hear me scream and—