My mother is still here—
at least that’s what people say.
Her body sits in the chair across the room,
the same hands folded in her lap,
the same face I’ve known my whole life.
But the woman who filled her house
with plans and lists and laughter
is slowly slipping somewhere
I cannot follow.
Dementia is not a sudden loss.
It is a quiet fading.
A memory misplaced here,
a question repeated there,
a name forgotten,
a story unfinished.
Each day
another small piece
drifts away.
Once, she did everything.
She ran the house
like a steady heartbeat —
meals on the table,
clothes folded warm from the dryer,
the iron going as the Guiding Light
played in the background.
She knew where everything belonged.
Now she looks at simple items
like they are something unfamiliar.
She cannot remember how to stand.
How to shower.
How to function.
The woman who once carried us all
now leans on me
for everything.
I guide her steps everywhere she goes.
I help her dress.
I tuck her into bed.
I answer the same questions
again and again. And again.
Some days
I feel more like a parent
than a daughter.
Sometimes I sit across from her
and it feels like I am living
with a stranger
wearing my mother’s face.
Her eyes pass over me
without recognition.
Her words wander without
finishing a thought.
She is lost somewhere
between yesterday and a place
no one else can reach.
And then,
every once in a while,
the fog lifts.
She looks at me—
really looks.
She says my name
the way she used to.
And for one brief moment
my mother comes back.
Just long enough
to remind me
who she was.
And how much
I miss her
even while she is still here.
Living right down the hall.
The hardest part
is remembering
who she used to be.
The strong one.
The capable one.
The woman who carried us all
through sickness, bills, broken appliances,
and ordinary chaos.
Even cancer.
She did everything.
Everything.
And now
she depends on me
for everything.
Life has quietly
turned itself upside down.
Roles have been reversed.
And I hate it.
But I love her.
I want my mom back.
I don’t want to be a mom to my mom.
But this is where we are.
So I will remember for both of us.
Remember the woman that is still inside.
Just Differently Abled 