Page 11 of Shattered

“I forgot.” Her voice broke on the last word. “Oh God, Delia, I forgot. What kind of mother forgets her daughter’s wedding was canceled?”

“Mom, it’s okay?—”

“It’s not okay!” She was crying now, hard sobs that made her words come out jagged. “I called to ask about your honeymoon and you’re not even married and I don’t remember. I don’t remember any of it. What else have I forgotten? What else am I going to forget?”

My own tears started without permission. “It’s not your fault. The Alzheimer’s?—”

“I hate this.” The words came out fierce, desperate. “I hate not knowing what’s real. I hate that I hurt you. I hate that this disease is taking everything from me and I can’t stop it.”

This was the old Elena breaking through for a moment. The sharp, witty woman who’d taught me how to paint on a canvas, who’d known exactly how to read people, who’d never missed a detail. She was still in there somewhere, trapped behind walls that kept getting thicker.

“You didn’t hurt me,” I lied. “I’m fine.”

“Don’t do that. Don’t make yourself small for me.” Her voice steadied slightly, fighting through the grief. “You’re allowed to be devastated. Or even mad at me. You’re allowed to fall apart. I might forget things but I remember that much—you matter, Delia. Your pain matters.”

I pressed my hand over my mouth to keep the sob in. She was giving me permission to break while she was actively breaking apart. It was so perfectly Mom that I almost laughed.

“I love you,” I managed.

“I love you too, sweetheart. So much. Even when I forget everything else, I’ll remember that. Okay?”

“Okay.”

We talked a few more minutes—about her garden, about the puzzle she was working on, about anything that wasn’t weddings or honeymoons or memories she couldn’t hold onto. By the time we hung up, her voice had brightened again, the confusion retreating into whatever corner it lived in between episodes.

I set the phone down carefully on the counter.

Then the dam finally burst. I slid down the wall and sobbed so hard I couldn’t breathe. Not for Jake or for the wedding. But for my mother disappearing piece by piece.

I had to watch Alzheimer’s steal her in pieces, leaving her confused about what was real and what was memory.

The wedding happened. The wedding didn’t happen. Her daughter was married. Her daughter was abandoned. She couldn’t hold onto the truth anymore, and I had to keep shattering her with reality every time she asked.

I cried until my throat was raw and my eyes burned and my chest ached from the force of it. Then I stayed there on the floor, staring at nothing, feeling hollowed out and exhausted.

On Wednesday, I tried to paint.

I stood in front of the blank canvas for two hours. Brush in hand, palette ready, every color I could possibly need mixed and waiting.

Nothing came.

The colors looked wrong. My hand wouldn’t cooperate. I’d always processed emotion through art—every feeling, every hurt, every moment of joy translated into something visual and real.

But this grief was too big. Too shapeless. It refused to fit on a canvas.

I tried anyway. Made three brushstrokes that looked like nothing, like the work of someone who’d never held a brush before. The composition was wrong. The colors were muddy. Everything about it was terrible.

I tried again. And again. Each attempt worse than the last.

Finally, something inside me snapped.

I grabbed the canvas and tore it. Ripped it right off the frame, the fabric giving way with a sound that was satisfying and horrible all at once. Then I tore it again. And again. Shredding itinto pieces while tears ran down my face and my heart hurt so badly I wanted to claw it out of my chest.

When the canvas was destroyed, I threw the pieces across the room and went to bed.

It was just six p.m. It was still light outside. I didn’t care.

Thursday morning, my phone woke me.