“She gets lonely.”
“She has dementia. She forgets the second you leave.”
I clenched the phone harder. “Maybe. But she remembers while I’m there.”
He ended the call.
Weeks faded into months. I began skipping lunch so I could drive across town. I read Rosie the newspaper. I massaged her hands when her knuckles hurt.
One afternoon, she leaned closer, breathing lightly, her eyes clearer than I had ever seen them.
“You’re a good man, son,” she said.
I nearly broke apart right there.
“Mama, I…”
“Shh.” She patted my cheek. “I know what I know.”
I did not understand it then. I convinced myself it was only the dementia, only loose words floating free.
That night, I drove home thinking about my own mother and how rarely I sat beside her the way I sat beside Rosie. I promised myself I would do better. Call more often. Stay longer.
Two days later, my phone rang while I was loading boxes into the truck.
It was the director of the nursing home.
“Jeremy. Rosie passed away in her sleep last night.”
I lowered the box onto the wet pavement.
“And she left something for you.”
Three days after the funeral, I sat inside Director Helen’s office, staring at a sealed envelope resting on her desk. I had prepared myself for grief, not documents.
“She knew you weren’t her son,” Helen said gently.
