A friend called me a week ago to inform me that his Mom had died. She had been on her own until 92, then assisted living three years ago, then full-on nursing home care, dementia, etc.
She was 95. His Dad died almost 30 years ago. I would say to Mike, "He died to get away from her." "Oh, you bet!," (She was particularly relentless with his Dad.)

Bob: "I thought you said he had a myocardial infarction?,"
Mike: "He did."
Bob: "Well, I don't understand how a coroner can mistake 7 self-inflicted ice pick wounds to the chest for an M.I.
That one would always make him laugh!

Mike and I became friends and band mates 44 years ago. I knew his Mom rather well, as we hung out at each others' houses playing and listening to music every week. She would always groan at him about, well, anything, and hold me up as a paradigm, which amused me no end.

"Look how nice Bobby's clothes are. Why don't you dress that way?!" Nothing he or his Dad did could ever be good enough. She was an unhappy and frequently not a very nice person, in general.

Last night I called him, just to see how he was doing and that he was OK. He talked to me about how much he had on his plate; dealing with her condo, which had been rented since she left, her upcoming memorial service, her stuff, losing your living parent, etc.

After a few minutes of discussing these things, he paused and asked, "So, how are YOU doing?" I replied, "Oh, I was over it an hour after you called to tell me."

Always call the place you live a house. When you're old, everyone else will call it a home.