Here's an excerpt:
My mother died in June, soon after her eighty-sixth birthday. After the funeral, when the guests had left, my family sat in the living room of Mom’s two-bedroom apartment, deep in thought. We reflected upon our positive experiences with mom. We concocted a martyr. In reality, mom had her faults. She was human.
The doorbell rang, disrupting the solitude we’d embraced. George, the elderly doorman, took the elevator to the fourteenth floor to convey his condolences. He had tears in his eyes and his voice trembled. After he left my sister-in-law, Stephanie asked, “Was he so close with your mother?
“He was touched by her caring nature,” I said.
“When others treated him as a hired hand, Mom regarded him as a friend.”