My mother, Ruth, is tiny—ninety pounds, four-foot-ten, living with dementia. Some days she’s clear and bright; others, she drifts into confusion. She has two sons: me, Michael, living in Florida, and my brother Tom, just twenty minutes away from her assisted living home in northern Michigan.
Eight years ago, I moved south. I told myself it was for work, for sunshine—but the truth was, I was exhausted. Exhausted by the late-night calls, the endless appointments, the slow heartbreak of watching someone fade. I convinced myself professional care would be better for her. That was the lie I told myself so I could sleep at night.
They arranged a budget-friendly transport van to take her to urgent care, only three miles away. The driver left her there, assuming someone would meet her.
No one came.
She waited in the clinic for six hours—cold, confused, in slippers and a thin sweater—hoping her sons would arrive. By 7 p.m., the clinic was closing. Staff called Tom. No answer. They called me. I ignored it, sitting in a Florida restaurant, pretending not to see the Michigan number.
That’s when Derek appeared.
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