Why? Why her? My mom was one of the kindest, most caring, most warm people to ever exist. All she did was work to make sure everyone around her was happy. She donated her money, and she volunteered her time, and she was an incredible mother, even when my father seemed intent on breaking us both down. When they divorced—about five years ago—I thought my mom would have a hard time, but she took it in stride and blossomed even more, finding a group of friends in a local gardening club. She and her green-thumbed gals would go on movie dates and beach vacays and throw big birthday parties. I didn’t think I’d ever seen my mom so happy before.

And then she started to forget things. Little things at first. Where she left the remote, where she left her keys, what she was making for lunch. Then it got worse. She’d forget where she parked her car, why she was at the grocery store, which turn to make to get home. That one was the tipping point—when my mom called me in gasping tears as she pulled over at an intersection just down the street from her home. We went to the doctors that day and got the official diagnosis soon after.

It did more than rattle my world. It destroyed it. Sundered it. Split it in half and crushed it between a planet-sized boot. And it created a dark haze over my head that clouded my thoughts, snuffed out any enjoyment, dragging me down in a seemingly endless well of depression.

But I was pulled out of it. Not just by Ashley, who had entered my life around this point and really helped keep my mind off things, but also by my mom herself. Vivianne Perez, even with the odds stacked high against her and her memories slipping away like water through a sieve, stayed positive. Somehow, someway, my mom figured out how to keep a smile on, even when her son could barely keep his eyes open. All I wanted to do was sleep and dream about a better world.

But my mom kept my head up, and I slowly learned the best way to help her cope with this debilitating and just plain old fucked-up disease.

We can figure out how to send billionaires on field trips to space but can’t figure out how to cure this. Make it make sense.

I let out a sigh, pushing off my car. I didn’t want to go back inside. Not so that everyone could see my puffy eyes and start asking me what was wrong. Instead, I grabbed my phone and shot off a quick text to Noah.

“Family emergency, sorry, I’ve got to go. Tell everyone I say bye.”