Why we exist
I watched my grandmother care for those who had lived beautiful lives and found themselves with nowhere that matched that beauty.
His youngest daughter found him a place in my childhood home. Beneath my bookshelf, there was a man who had lost his sight but not his strength. A family friend with nowhere else to go.
Maggie spent her last days in the back room of her own home. I stole a peek in there once. It was dark and small. Undignified.
Aunty was not treated the way she deserved. Her relatives were living with and caring for her. My grandmother was called in to help. She stayed with her until the end.
I have spent years asking a quiet question: Could there be somewhere better? Somehere that feels like home.
Somewhere with fresh air, natural light, and where grandchildren can come to visit. A place where life stories don't only get told, but also get listened to. A place with trained professionals, just around, in case.
Mora House is that answer. Not a nursing home. Not a hospital. A home for those who are still living fully, and want to keep doing exactly that.