My mother had dementia. By the time I could no longer care for her at home, she barely remembered my name. Some days she thought I was her sister; other days, she looked at me with polite confusion. On rare moments when she recognized me, her fragile joy broke my heart all over again. Placing her in a nursing home was the hardest decision I ever made—and one I still blame myself for. I told myself I had no choice. She wandered at night, forgot to eat, and once nearly burned the house down.

Still, signing those papers felt like betrayal. The night I left her, she clung to my hand and whispered, “Don’t leave me.” I left anyway.I visited when I could, but work and distance made it difficult. Each visit felt heavier. She cried when I stood to go, panic in her voice she couldn’t explain. I promised I’d come sooner next time. I didn’t.

Then one morning, my phone rang before sunrise. A calm nurse told me my mother had passed away peacefully. I barely remember arriving at the nursing home—only bracing myself for paperwork and emptiness. Instead, I found a young caregiver sitting beside my mother’s bed, holding her hand. She told me she had stayed after her shift so my mother wouldn’t be alone. She read to her, brushed her hair, and talked softly about ordinary things.

Months later, I found a small notebook among my mother’s belongings. Inside were dated notes written by that caregiver—simple observations about my mother’s likes, her moods, her calm after being read to. On the last page, one sentence stopped me cold: “She talked about her daughter today. She loved her very much.” That notebook became my most precious possession—not because it erased my guilt, but because it showed me my mother was never truly alone.