I drained my savings caring for my mom with dementia. Meds on the counter. Diapers in bulk. Night alarms so I’d hear her if she tried to slip out barefoot. Some nights she’d stand at the door in her nightgown, keys in her fist, whispering she had to “go home,” even though she was already home.
My siblings “checked in” with emojis. A heart. A praying-hands. “You’re amazing.” “Wish I could help.” Then they vanished again. They had jobs, kids, trips, reasons. I had Mom, a deadbolt, and a bank account that kept getting thinner.
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