Mr. B., a resident of the old people's home, with whom I could talk about everything in art and culture like hardly anyone else, was initially charming and vital when he came to us.

In this hole called a home, he gradually lost his courage to face life, stopped eating and died a week after my father.

Right now, this hurts me more than my father's death.

My father, unlike Mr. Buquet, had it fine until his last breath. He was at home, and his wife cared for him until he fell asleep and didn´t wake up again.