I don’t remember when my mother forgot who I was. But I know she did.
Somewhere along the slowly sloping path of Alzheimer’s disease, she forgot I was her daughter. She forgot what “daughter” meant.
And so I became a friend. A friend that never stopped calling her “Mom.”
It wasn’t always easy to let her go.
Who knows you better than your mom? Who loves you more than your mom? Who do you want to tell things to, more than your mom?
As her friend, I listened.