Maybe that’s what they needed to believe. But I know the truth. My mother forgot many things—dates, names, even faces.
She forgot where she put her glasses while they sat on her head.
She forgot the year, the season, sometimes the room she was in. She never forgot who showed up.
She remembered the hand that steadied her at night, the voice that stayed patient, the chair pulled close when the world slipped out of focus. And kindness, it turns out, keeps records even when memory fails.
