Two years have passed since the night I looked at the security camera and cried.
Eleanor’s condition eventually progressed to the point where she required specialized, around-the-clock professional memory care. We found a beautiful, warm facility just ten minutes from our house, where she has her own room decorated with old family photographs. We visit her every weekend. Some days she recognizes us; most days she just smiles kindly at us as if we are nice strangers who bring her favorite lemon cookies.
Lily is ten now. She isn’t afraid of the dark anymore, and she understands a lot more about life, aging, and love than most kids her age. She often sits with Eleanor during our visits, patiently turning the pages of old photo albums, completely unfazed when her grandmother repeats the same sentence five times in a row.
This morning, Lily came running into the kitchen while I was flipping pancakes. She wrapped her arms tightly around my waist, her face buried in my apron.
“Mommy,” she murmured sleepily.
“What’s wrong, sweetie? Did you sleep okay?” I asked, turning around with a smile.
