Motherhood is a circle, but no one tells you about the moment the roles reverse in the quietest, most heartbreaking way. For my mother, it didn’t start with a crash; it started with keys left in the freezer and stories that trailed off into nothing. When the diagnosis came, my siblings looked at her through the cold lens of logistics—calculating the costs of nursing homes and checking waiting lists like they were booking a hotel. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t hand her fear over to strangers who wouldn’t know that she likes her tea with exactly two sugars or that she hums when she’s anxious. I made the solitary decision to bring her home, embarking on a journey that would slowly dismantle the life I had built, one forgotten memory at a time.
