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“Miss Bailey and I both know it’s not something you would do normally. Today is a bad day for you and me. I’m sorry, I should have checked you were all right before I left for work this morning.” I pull back from Noah so I can look at him, and I ruffle my fingers through his hair. “Miss Bailey has said you can have the rest of the day off school. Get your bag and stuff. We’ll talk more at home.”
He nods.
“I miss her, Dad. I miss Mummy so much.”
My heart breaks. I hate seeing my son so upset.
“I know, Noah. I know you do. If I could bring her back for you, I would. I love you so much, my little boy. I only want to make you happy.”
Noah slams into me again for another hug. I hold him tight, and we stand in silence together for a few minutes. Eventually, I look toward the classroom door. Miss Bailey is standing there, and I watch as she wipes away a tear from her eye before disappearing.
This is never going to get any easier. My heart is now dead to all but my son.
And with good reason.
CHAPTER THREE
SAMANTHA
“How are you feeling this morning, Mum?” I place the cup of lukewarm tea next to my mum’s bed.
Mum used to enjoy her tea boiling hot, but after she had a couple of spills, I decided it was better to wait until it cooled before bringing it to her. She might only be in her fifties, but Mum has early onset dementia. She’s so very young to have such a devastating disease. It breaks my heart to see her memory fading, but it also gives me some small comfort, knowing she’s forgotten the pain of losing my father, the man she was completely devoted to.
“I’m good. What day is it?” she questions.
This is our normal morning routine.
“It’s Tuesday,” I reply, looking at the calendar next to her bed.
“The twenty sixth.” My mum looks at the date.
She’s started forgetting numbers recently.
“Yes, the twenty sixth. That’s right.” She smiles at me. Happy to have remembered something. “Shall I help you get dressed?” I offer, and she nods acceptance. “Mary will be here soon.”
“Mary?” my mum questions, forgetting the carer who helps her during the day.
“Your carer.” I pull back the covers and help her to get out of bed.
“Carer, why do I have one of them?” She looks at me confused.
“You forget things sometimes, so we agreed it’d be for the best to have someone come and help you while I’m at work.” I swallow back tears at having to explain something that should be an intrinsic part of her memory.
“I do forget. I remember that.” My mother laughs at the irony.
Thankfully, she doesn’t get upset at being reminded of her condition and climbs out of bed. I spend the next half an hour helping her to shower, brush her hair, go to the toilet, and clean her teeth. She looks at the toothbrush for a long time when I hand it to her, questioning what she should do with it until I show her.
The dementia came on slowly at first. Initially, she forgot little things like her keys or wallet when she went out, but over the last few months, the disease process has really accelerated. The doctors have said I should look at finding a nursing home for her. They’ve told me that soon she’s likely to need constant care, both night and day, but this is her home, the place she lived with my father. I’m scared I really will lose my mother when she leaves it.
I sit her down at the kitchen table and place a couple of slices of toast in front of her. She looks at them and then up at me. I encourage her to eat, and she nods at me.
The front door opens. I know it’ll be Mary—she’s always punctual.
“Hi,” the carer calls out.
“In the kitchen,” I reply.
She enters and waves to me and Mum.
