It all began the night my mother forgot my name, and I realized the house I inherited was more burden than blessing. Every day since, I’ve fought with my sister, wrestled with guilt, and tried to hold onto love in a family torn apart by memory loss. This is the story of how I learned what it means to care for someone who no longer remembers you—and to forgive those who never will.
On a stormy Thanksgiving night, I found my grandmother, Evelyn, standing in the kitchen, struggling to remember her own apple pie recipe. As her memory faded, our family confronted the heartbreak of Alzheimer’s, grappling with guilt, love, and the ache of watching someone slip away. In the end, I was left questioning what really remains when memories fade: love, regret, or something else entirely.
My daughter stormed into our home, certain that I’d forgotten her birthday, but the truth was much heavier than she could imagine. In that moment, I faced the heartbreak of memory loss and the guilt of disappointing my family. Through one emotional evening, I confronted the reality of early-onset Alzheimer’s and the impact it had on my relationship with my only child.
I never thought I’d be feeding my grandpa oatmeal at 4 a.m., fighting back tears when he calls me “Mom” instead of “Sarah.” I thought patience was my virtue, but I had no idea how hard it would be to see the man who taught me to ride a bike now needing help to stand. In this story, I open up about the heartbreak, guilt, and unexpected moments of grace that come with caring for a loved one who’s slowly fading away.
