Show Up

I brought my mother home. For good.

There were no big decisions, no drawn-out talks. One day, I simply showed up—with a single bag in hand. Inside, she’d tucked a few essentials: a pair of stockings, cozy slippers stitched with “World’s Best Grandma” (a gift from my kids), her favorite soft robe and nightgown, and—though she couldn’t say why—a pillowcase. She packed it all herself.

Now, for the past three weeks, a delicate little girl has been living in my home. No more than four, perhaps. Tiny. Quiet. She wears a small white bow in her thinning hair and cotton socks that bunch at the ankles. She shuffles softly down the hallway, lifting her feet with exaggerated care at every doorway, as if stepping over something only she can see. When the dog blocks her path, she stops and grins. I often hear her having conversations with people long gone, retelling their imagined replies like sacred truth.

She’s shy now. She sleeps often. She nibbles carefully on chocolate I leave in her room and drinks her tea slowly, two hands wrapped around the cup—one shaking gently. She checks her ring constantly, twisting it nervously, terrified it might slip from her finger.

And just like that, I see her differently. Small. Exposed. As if, in the quiet of my home, she’s finally allowed herself to stop pretending. To stop being the strong one. She has placed her life gently in my hands—with full trust. What she wants most is simple: my presence. I hear her exhale the moment my key turns in the door. It’s such a deep, audible relief that I now try to stay near. I leave only when I must—and never for long.

Every afternoon, I make soup again. Like I did when my children were small. There’s always a plate of cookies waiting by her chair.

How do I feel? At first—fear. She had always been so fiercely independent. After my father passed, she insisted on living alone. She was eighty, and for the first time, free to choose for herself. I respected that. Then the virus came, stealing her strength. Two months locked inside wore her down. Something inside her dimmed.

What do I feel now? Tenderness. Awe. Sorrow. Love. I look at the fragile world she’s become and want only one thing: to make these days as gentle and full as they can be. I fill them with the comfort of her favorites—homemade pierogi, golden croquettes, quiet afternoons.

The rest fades away.

Now, in my home, I have a daughter again—eighty-three years old. And I’m endlessly grateful for this chance to walk beside her at the end. To offer her peace. To live without guilt or regret.

Mom, thank you for coming back to me.
Stay as long as your heart allows.