When my mom passed away she left everything to me. The house we grew up in. Her savings. Even the old jewelry box on the dresser. Every detail was written clearly in her will. My brother got nothing. On paper it probably looked cruel. Anyone who knew the full story would understand why.

He had not spoken to our mother in seven years. Not when she turned sixty-five. Not when she had her first fall in the kitchen. Not even when the doctor told us she had early-stage dementia. I remember that day clearly. Mom sat quietly in the examination room twisting her ring while the doctor explained what would happen. When we got home she made tea. Then she looked at me and asked softly if I would stay. I told her I was not going anywhere.

From that day on I became her routine. I drove her to appointments. I sat with her during long evenings when the house felt too quiet. Sometimes she asked the same question three or four times and I answered each time like it was the first. Some nights she talked about memories she was afraid would disappear—stories about when we were kids, the treehouse my brother built that collapsed after two days, how she clapped louder than anyone at our school plays.