My mother had dementia, and when I could no longer care for her at home, placing her in a nursing home felt like betrayal. By then, she barely recognized me. Every visit ended with her begging me not to leave, and every goodbye carried guilt I never shook.
When she passed before sunrise, I expected paperwork and silence. Instead, I found a young caregiver sitting beside her bed, holding her hand. She had stayed after her shift ended so my mother wouldn’t be alone. She read to her, brushed her hair, and spoke softly through the night.
Months later, while sorting through my mother’s belongings, I found a small notebook hidden in a drawer. Inside were notes written by that same caregiver—details about songs she liked, how she calmed when her hair was brushed, and moments when she smiled. Proof that my mother had been deeply cared for when I couldn’t be there.
On the last page was one line that stayed with me: “She talked about her daughter today. She loved her very much.”
The guilt never fully left—but I gained something just as powerful: knowing my mother was seen, loved, and never alone at the end.
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