Sophie shifted in her sleep, instinctively pushed toward the edge of the mattress by the added weight.
Tears streamed down my face as I realized the truth.
Eleanor is seventy-six.
She’s been living with us for eight months after we determined she could no longer safely live alone.
She raised Michael by herself after her husband died in a construction accident when Michael was six. She worked cleaning offices at night, sewing clothes for neighbors, cooking food to sell at church fundraisers — anything to keep her son clothed and educated.
Michael once told me she skipped meals so he wouldn’t have to.
In recent years, we noticed changes.
She’d forget what day it was.
Get lost driving home.
Call Michael by his father’s name.
Six months ago, a neurologist gave us the diagnosis: early-stage Alzheimer’s disease.
But nothing prepared us for this.
That night, I showed Michael the footage.
He didn’t speak until the video ended.
Then he whispered, “When I was little, she used to climb into my bed whenever I had nightmares.”
His voice broke.
“Her mind doesn’t know where she is. But her body remembers being a mother.”
We cried together.