When my mother’s memory began to fade, it didn’t vanish overnight. At first, it was small things—lost keys, missed appointments, stories told twice. Then one day she looked at me with gentle confusion and asked if I was “the nice neighbor.” The doctor spoke softly, using words like progressive and unpredictable. My siblings quickly discussed facilities and costs. I listened, already knowing I couldn’t leave her somewhere unfamiliar. I brought her home.
Caring for her slowly reshaped my life. I cut my work hours, then lost my job when flexibility ran out. Savings disappeared into medication, special meals, and safety changes around the house. Some days were calm—she hummed old songs or smiled at the sunlight. Other days were restless and confusing. My siblings called but rarely visited. Still, I reminded myself that love isn’t measured by recognition.
