My mother didn’t disappear from me all at once.
She faded—quietly, almost politely—like a light being dimmed one notch at a time.

First came the small lapses: keys left in the freezer, appointments forgotten, stories told twice with the same gentle smile. We laughed then. We told ourselves it was normal.
Until one afternoon, she studied my face with warm uncertainty and asked if I lived next door.

The diagnosis arrived wrapped in careful language. Progressive. Unpredictable.
The doctor spoke softly, as if volume could soften reality.

My siblings reacted swiftly and efficiently. They talked about facilities, waiting lists, monthly costs—numbers passed back and forth like business figures. I stayed silent, because I already knew the answer I would give.
I couldn’t leave her somewhere strange.
I couldn’t hand her fear to strangers.

So I brought her home.

People warned me. They said it would be exhausting. That she might never know what I gave up. That love without recognition eventually turns into resentment.
I listened—and stayed.

Caring for her slowly dismantled the life I had built.
Work hours shortened. Then the job vanished altogether.
Money drained away into prescriptions, modified meals, safety rails, and quiet solutions for loud problems. My world narrowed to her routines, her moods, her fragile calm.

Some days were almost gentle. She hummed melodies from decades ago, her eyes soft as sunlight spilled across the floor.
Other days, she was restless, frightened by things she couldn’t name.
My siblings called now and then. 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.
And that had to be enough.

When she died, it happened quietly—just before dawn.
I was there, as always, holding her hand.
She slipped away the same way she had lived in her final years: gently, without drama.