“So, what have you been up to? Are you eating well?” I ask, forcing a smile. I’ve tried to confront her with the truth in the past. It did not end well.

She blinks again. “Are you stupid or what? I said who are you?”

“Mom, I—”

“Will you stop calling me that? I’m not your mom.” She swats me with the back of her hand. “Now get out of my house.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” I say, hands lifted in front of me. “Let’s just talk about—”

“I SAID GET OUT OF MY FUCKING HOUSE!”

My throat closes in on itself as I get up and start walking backward. Less than ten seconds later, a nurse comes into the room. She’s new here. Maybe my age, with large glasses and a shawl covering her hair.

“Everything okay in here?”

“Yes, don’t worry,” I answer at the same time my mom says, “Mommy, thank God. This woman won’t leave my house.”

The nurse turns to me suspiciously.

“I’m Wren, her daughter,” I say.

“Stop saying that, you liar! You want to kill me, is that it? I’ll kill you first if you try. LEAVE!” She shoos me with her hands, like vermin infesting her place.

What she truly sees me as.

The nurse winces, then throws me a pleading look. I know it all too well.

“It’s okay,” I say. “I’ll go.”

I don’t bother telling my mother goodbye. It would only anger her more.

“Leave me alone! Just leave me alone!” Her shouts resonate out of the room. “No, don’t touch me! I want Daddy.”

My heart beats wildly in my chest as I walk down the hallway leading to the front door of the facility. The air is too warm, too thick, constricting my trachea. Behind me, someone calls my name and says goodbye—probably Jean—but I can’t stop to talk. My body is being compressed between four walls, no air left inside. Jean will forgive me for it. It’s not like it’s the first time.

And this is why I’ve had to come see her less often.

People with Alzheimer’s disease usually recognize people from their family, at least in some way. They might not know their names, or realize what their relation is to that person, but they’ll become calmer in their presence. Smile bigger. For my mother, it’s the opposite. As if seeing me reminds her of her old life, and she’d rather forget all about it.

All the staff working with her at the Somerville memory care facility say she is a bright, lovely patient. That she is peaceful with most of the other residents. Mostly keeps to herself, but is polite and sometimes plays cards with some of them.

So imagine their surprise when they see how distressed she becomes when her own daughter comes to visit her.