More than three weeks have passed since I’ve been here. I usually come visit every other Wednesday afternoon, but this week, I had a meeting with one of the doctors who works at the local hospital, and after that, Selina called me to talk about a new case the firm received that she would like me to take on with her in a few weeks. By the end of the conversation, the visiting hours were almost over, so I’d missed my chance.

Another reason why I don’t like messing with my schedule.

“Wren, hi!” Jean, one of the nurses, calls from the medical care pod in the middle of the hallway. Her black braids have been styled in two buns, making the forty-year-old look closer to twenty-five.

“Hi, Jean, how are you?”

“Great, thanks. Melissa’s had a great day today.”

My expression remains the same. If I’m being honest, I’d rather she not tell me that every time I come here. It would make it less painful when my mom reacts the way she does to me if I thought she was like this with everyone.

“All right. I’ll go see her now,” I say.

She smiles, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “Have fun.”

Sure.

I quickly find my way to room 42B. She’s been in that one ever since she came to live here six years ago. It was my request, hoping she would become familiar to it enough to feel comfortable. So far, so good.

With a knuckle, I knock faintly on the door before walking in.

As expected, Mom is sitting in a chair facing her window. No music or television is playing in the room. It’s only her and the silence. I’m not sure what she looks at when she gazes outside. The facility is located next to a forest, but nothing goes on out there except for the occasional squirrel walking by. It must get so boring.

And yet, every time I come in here, this is where I find her.

The faint sound of mumbling comes from her. Another thing I’ve gotten used to.

“Hi, Mom,” I say softly, taking a seat next to her. I know better than to touch her. Wouldn’t want to recreate last year’s fiasco.

The mutter stops as her head turns my way in slow motion. The gray in her hair has become more apparent in the past three years, lining the black curls that used to shine in the sun. Her cheeks are hollow, the skin covering them wrinkled. Crazy, what eight years of not being able to take care of oneself will do.

It’s rare that someone with eFAD survives this long. The nurses always tell me how lucky we are that she’s gotten this far.