The Hard Truths I Learned While Looking After My Mother at Home.

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.