I walked into the room expecting silence and found tenderness instead. A young caregiver sat beside my mother’s body, fingers laced with hers, as if time hadn’t yet caught up. She’d stayed after her shift, not for duty, but because she couldn’t bear the thought of my mother dying alone. She told me how she’d read aloud, brushed her hair, and filled the fading hours with gentle conversation.
Months later, the notebook appeared—tucked away, almost shy. Inside were fragments of my mother’s days: the songs that calmed her, the foods she still enjoyed, the way her eyes brightened at certain names. On the final page, one line waited for me: “She talked about her daughter today. She loved her very much.” My guilt didn’t disappear, but it softened. Love had been there in the room, even when I wasn’t—circling her, holding her, carrying what I could not.
