Every week I volunteered at a care home and spent time with Ruth, who was 84 and had pretty advanced dementia. She always called me “Claire” and talked about “our memories” like we’d known each other forever. I corrected her once, and the staff were like, “Yeah… don’t do that. Just go with it.” So I did.
Six months later, Ruth passed away. At the funeral, her son came up to thank me for visiting her so often. Then he showed me an old photo.
It was a young woman named Claire, taken in 1982. Same blonde hair as me. Even the same smile. I actually felt my stomach drop.
He told me Claire was his sister, and she died in a car accident at 19. The exact age I am. He said his mom never really recovered and that seeing me let her believe Claire had somehow come back. I just stood there trying not to cry, realizing I’d accidentally become someone’s grief therapy.
