My mother still needed medical treatment. There were bills to organize, appointments to attend, and practical decisions to make. Richard and I had to learn how to speak to each other without feeling that every conversation carried the weight of forty-five missing years.
Margaret’s memory continued to fluctuate.
Some mornings, she recognized me immediately.
Other days, she looked at me politely and asked whether I was a nurse.
The first time it happened, I went into the bathroom and cried.
Richard found me there.
“She knew me yesterday,” I whispered. “She remembered the garden. She remembered the song. Today, she doesn’t even know who I am.”
He leaned against the doorway.
“Emily, I wish I could tell you that her memory will return permanently. I can’t.”
I wiped my face.
“Then how am I supposed to help her?”
He thought for a moment.
“By loving her in the present, rather than asking her to remember the past.”
