The hardest part wasn’t packing up her things. It wasn’t signing the paperwork or walking through those beige, too-quiet halls. It was when she smiled at me and said, “You don’t have to visit every day, sweetheart. I’ll be just fine.”
She said it like she believed it. Like she was trying to make me feel better.
We all agreed it was time. Mom’s memory had started to slip—little things at first, like forgetting if she’d eaten or where she put her purse. Then she wandered out of the house in the middle of the night and the neighbor found her in her robe, barefoot, asking where Dad went. Dad’s been gone eight years.
It wasn’t safe anymore. My sister Salome and I both work full-time, and we have our own kids to take care of. We tried rotating days, hiring a caregiver, but Mom kept firing people. Said she didn’t want “a stranger giving her a bath.”