The Day My Mother Forgot My Name / by Adil

There are moments in life that feel like earthquakes—not because buildings crumble, but because everything *inside* you does.

For me, that moment came on a quiet Tuesday afternoon. The sun was soft, the tea was warm, and my mother—my fierce, vibrant, beautiful mother—looked at me with eyes full of distance and said,

“Sorry… and you are?”

I laughed at first. A nervous laugh. A reflex.

“I’m your son,” I said, trying to sound casual. “It’s me—Samir.”

She stared at me for a long moment, her brow slightly furrowed.

“I had a son,” she said softly, “but he was a little boy. You’re too grown up.”

I opened my mouth, but the words tangled like a knot in my throat.

That was the moment I knew.

This wasn’t just forgetfulness.

This was **Alzheimer’s.**

My mother had always been the memory-keeper of our home.

She remembered everyone's birthdays, what I wore on my first day of school, the scent of my father’s cologne, and the exact recipe her mother used for cardamom tea. She was the family archive, the historian, the heart of our stories.

And now, the pages were blanking out—one by one.

In the beginning, it was small things.

She’d misplace the sugar jar, repeat a story twice, or forget a name here and there. We laughed it off as “senior moments.” She even joked about it:

“Don’t get old, Samir. Your brain starts throwing out files without asking.”

We didn’t realize the files weren’t just being misplaced. They were being *erased.*

And then came that day. The day she forgot *me.*

I sat beside her, holding her hand like I used to when I was five and scared of thunderstorms.

But this time, **I** was the one scared—terrified of this invisible storm that was slowly washing away everything we had built together.

Caring for someone with Alzheimer’s is like mourning a person who is still alive.

She would smile at me like I was a friendly stranger. Sometimes she’d call me “the nice nurse” or “that polite boy.”

She'd tell me stories from her youth, but get the details scrambled—placing me in them, as if I had always been there.

Some days were better. There were flickers of clarity, moments where she'd look into my eyes and say my name with such conviction, I thought perhaps this was all just a bad dream.

But those moments became rarer, and eventually, they stopped coming altogether.

I started keeping a journal of the things she *did* remember.

Like how much she loved jasmine flowers.

How she always hummed when peeling pomegranates.

How she’d say “shhh” to the wind when it got too loud.

Writing it down felt like bottling pieces of her soul before they evaporated.

One evening, I showed her an old family photo album. She flipped through the pages slowly, as if each image were a language she once knew but had forgotten how to read.

She paused at a photo of me as a baby in her arms.

“He looks loved,” she said, touching the image gently.

I swallowed hard. “He was. Very much.”

There is a unique kind of heartbreak in being forgotten by someone who made you.

It's like watching a star blink out, knowing no one else will ever shine like that again.

But in the silence, I learned something unexpected:

Love doesn’t need recognition to exist.

Even if she didn’t remember *who* I was, she still smiled when I came into the room. She still held my hand tightly. She still laughed at my jokes—even if she thought I was someone else.

In the absence of memory, love remained. Quiet, constant, and unconditional.

The last words she said to me—words she hadn’t spoken in weeks—were,

“Thank you for staying.”

I choked on my tears, nodded, and whispered back,

“I never left, Mom.”

She passed a few weeks later. Peacefully, in her sleep.

At the funeral, I placed the old photo album on her chest—her fingers curled naturally around it. As if even in death, some part of her knew what it meant.

They say Alzheimer’s robs people of who they are.

But I disagree.

My mother was not her memory.

She was her warmth, her strength, her stubborn laughter, and her gentle hands.

And those, even Alzheimer’s couldn’t touch.

I still talk to her sometimes.

When I cook her favorite dish.

When jasmine blooms.

When I need advice and silence isn’t enough.

She may have forgotten my name that day…

…but I’ll remember hers for the rest of my life.

.............