My mother didn’t disappear all at once. She faded slowly—like a light dimming, one notch at a time.
At first it was small things: keys in the freezer, forgotten appointments, stories repeated with the same gentle smile. We laughed it off—until one day she looked at me and asked if I lived next door. The diagnosis came wrapped in soft words: progressive, unpredictable.
My siblings talked about facilities and costs. I already knew my answer. I couldn’t leave her somewhere unfamiliar. So I brought her home.
Caring for her unraveled the life I had built. My work hours shrank, then vanished. Savings drained into medications, safety rails, and quiet solutions for loud fears. Some days were tender—she hummed old melodies and held my hand. Other days she was frightened by shadows only she could see. Even when she forgot my name, she felt safe with me. That had to be enough.
She died just before dawn, peacefully, my hand in hers.
After the funeral, a former colleague called. Early in her illness, she had left a small account in my name—and a letter thanking me for staying.
Memory may fade. Love does not.
