My phone screen glowed with an area code 909, one I hadn’t mentally tagged to anyone important. I ignored it. Then it rang again, four minutes later-a persistence that implies disaster, not sales. I picked up, irritation already warming my throat. ‘Hello?’ A slightly gravelly voice, hesitant. ‘Hi, is this Frank’s son? Sorry to bother you, I’m Ken, from the 7:39 AM coffee group.’
Frank hadn’t shown up for three days. Not three *weeks*. Three days. Ken, his friend, was apologizing profusely for bothering me, but his concern-pure, unadulterated neighborhood anxiety-was already miles ahead of my own systematic, scheduled anxiety. I saw my dad every other week; I had the medication schedule nailed down, the autopay for the utility bills was running like clockwork. I was the *architect* of his safety, I thought. But Ken, who only knew Frank through 49 minutes of morning small talk, was the first responder.
I felt a visceral spike of guilt, quickly followed by the sharp, defensive realization: How could I have known? I live 239 miles away. This is the trap we, the adult children, fall into. We confuse remote oversight with proximate presence. We believe that because we hold the power of attorney and manage the finances, we possess the most critical information about our parents’ daily well-being. We couldn’t be more wrong.
The 9-Foot Sphere: Immediate Resources












