On September 19, 2019, Lyn Goffaux speaks into her recorder on what she knows will be her final day in the nursing home, capturing the fragile, hopeful space between dependence and returning to the familiar rhythms of home. Her words carry the quiet weight of someone who has waited a long time to reclaim her own space, her own routines, and her own decisions, even as she acknowledges that she will still need help to make that possible. She repeats to herself that tomorrow she goes home—back to her home—as if the phrase is both a promise and a grounding mantra amid all the logistics and uncertainties of this transition.

In this intimate reflection, Lyn lets us into the practical worries that ride alongside her anticipation: arranging caregivers, realizing that one person cannot be expected to work seven days a week, and accepting that she will have to discover, day by day, exactly how much support she truly needs once she is back in her own house. She mentions Sherry, the woman who will come over to help, and muses about how to pay her fairly, picturing Sherry mostly sleeping and watching TV during the quieter hours of her shift, an almost domestic, lived-in image of shared space and overlapping lives.

Finances form another thread, as Lyn visits the financial department and learns the facility is owed around fourteen thousand dollars, a daunting sum softened by her calm assurance: she has the money. She untangles confusion about a large investment with the help of Julie, then personally goes to clarify the details with the financial staff. Her visit makes a follow-up from Paul unnecessary, and she confirms what she already knew: she does not qualify for Medicaid. Rather than sounding defeated, Lyn comes across as an engaged decision-maker who understands her own situation and insists on being clearly heard.

Amid logistics, small human moments shine through: a staff member who thinks she recognizes Lyn from church, the quiet comfort of being seen as part of a community and not only as a patient. Lyn also describes her visitor, Jen Muller, who is blind and walks quickly when guided, and the two women’s intersecting limitations—one in a wheelchair, one unable to see—create a poignant image of mutual vulnerability and care.

As Lyn looks around her room, she narrates the simple work of closing out this chapter: emptying three drawers and a closet, clearing the little bedside piece, and slowly transforming what has been her makeshift office into a space she will soon leave behind. She sounds almost satisfied, as if each cleared drawer brings her one step closer to the door. Throughout, the refrain “tomorrow I go home” returns with both hope and realism. She does not promise to keep recording; instead, she leaves us with an honest, open-ended farewell and the powerful image of a woman reclaiming her home, her choices, and her sense of self at the threshold between institutional care and hard-won independence.