Living with a fading mind is like watching a sunset that never quite ends. There are days when she studies my face with a warm uncertainty, her eyes searching for a connection that her brain can no longer find. My siblings call me “martyr” or “unrealistic,” sending monthly checks as if money could replace the hours I spend holding her hand while she asks for a mother who has been gone for forty years. They see the burden; I see the woman who once stayed up all night when I had a fever, the woman whose essence is still there, trapped behind a fog. I’ve lost my career, my social life, and my sleep, but I’ve gained a profound, bone-deep understanding of what “unconditional” actually means.
