Mom was fussy about a lot of things, especially her papers. Her papers consisted of anything she thought worth keeping: insurance policies, birth certs, school reports, photos, and even certificates of compliance for various pieces of equipment she purchased over the years. Nothing fancy, my Mom had no weakness for the unnecessary, only documents for essential equipment – washing machines, microwaves, dishwashers. Nothing that would have you wondering what she wanted that for.

Everyone knew the leather bag that held all this vital material. It was old, made of crocodile skin and hidden behind a pile of gloves and scarves in her wardrobe. Amongst the papers sits one of her prize possessions: a medal my grandfather was presented with after the war. I’m not sure which war, but my mother has a medal to prove he was there and worth his uniform. I’m guessing that went down well with my Dad when they first met, because Dad was also in the army. He spent a whole year away from his family, starting when I was just three days old. That must have been hard, fighting off the enemy by day, dreaming about his family by night. I remember none of it and neither does Danny, even though he pretends he does. He goes on about how he helped Mom with all the chores when he was just four years old. Talks about Dad’s absence like he sat by the window each night waiting for him to return. All bullshit. Honorable, caring, endearing even, but still bullshit. We indulge him. I guess you need to with family, allow them their weirdness. Otherwise we’d all kill one another.

To tell the truth, I’m happy to listen to Danny babble on about what never happened. It’s something to listen to, now Mom isn’t here to fill in the blanks.

In the wardrobe, behind the pile of gloves and scarves, I find the bag. Turning the metal clip on the flap, I open the strap and smell the importance, the age, the scent of the serious. My heart is racing. Silly of me, I know, to think the writing on my birth certificate would read differently all of a sudden, all of a lot of suddens. But I need to see it. I need to know I am me.

And I am. The certificate in my hand was issued by the Registry of Vital Records and Statistics, Dorchester. Rebecca Sarah Wall, Sarah after my grandma. Born on the 13th of March 1991. Mother: Nancy Wall. Father: Nicholas Wall. I read it over a second time, then place it back in the bag. I am my mother’s daughter. I have the paperwork to prove it. I feel like a fool for allowing her words play with my head. I remind myself, your Mom has Alzheimer’s, Becca.