My mother didn’t disappear all at once. She faded—quietly, almost politely—like a light being dimmed one notch at a time. It began with small lapses: keys left in the freezer, appointments forgotten, stories repeated with the same gentle smile. We laughed, telling ourselves it was normal. Until one afternoon, she studied my face with uncertainty and asked if I lived next door.
The diagnosis came in careful language: progressive. Unpredictable. The doctor spoke softly, as if volume could soften reality. My siblings reacted swiftly, discussing facilities, waiting lists, and monthly costs—numbers passed back and forth like business figures. I stayed silent because I already knew my answer. I couldn’t leave her somewhere strange.
I couldn’t hand her fear to strangers. So, I brought her home. People warned me: it would be exhausting, thankless, and lonely. They said love without recognition could turn into resentment. I listened—and stayed. Caring for her slowly reshaped my life. Work hours shortened, then the job ended. Money flowed into prescriptions, meals, safety rails, and solutions for quiet chaos. My world centered on her routines, moods, and fragile calm. Some days were gentle—she hummed songs from decades ago, sunlight soft in her eyes.
Other days, she was restless, scared of things she couldn’t name. My siblings called occasionally; visits were rare. Still, I reminded myself: love is not proven by being remembered. Even when she forgot my name, she relaxed when I held her hand. She felt safe. That had to be enough. When she died, it was quiet—just before dawn. I was there, holding her hand. She slipped away the same way she had lived in her final years: gently, without drama.
