I watched Mom from across the room, my stomach in knots. Memories of her criticizing my college major and my tiny apartment with its cold concrete floors remained.
She hovered near the appetizers at my brother's birthday party. I walked over and froze. Mom popped an olive into her mouth and smiled.
"Mom?"
She looked up. "Yes, Stacy?"
"You just… ate an olive."
She scarfed down another. "Delicious, aren't they?"
I shook my head. Her hatred of olives had been seared into my childhood.
“Mom, you hate olives.”
Her hand stopped midair. “Do I?” she asked, voice shaky.
Silence thickened.
Her bottom lip quivered.
I stood beside her, twisting my napkin. "Mom, are you okay?"
Child-like fright washed over her, the same look I'd worn years ago. "I don't know," she whispered.
I stepped forward to comfort her, then bristled remembering every criticism she'd delivered.
“It’s okay. We’ll figure this out together.” Her look of confusion melted into relief. She squeezed my hand, something she hadn’t done in years.
Over the next two weeks I worried more. She misplaced her phone several times, called my brother our late father's name, and repeated the same story twice in one dinner.
At the clinic, the neurologist confirmed my growing dread: early-stage dementia.
Tears slid down my cheeks.
Stunned and afraid, I informed my siblings, and we made a plan.
I taped a whiteboard to her kitchen wall. I wrote everyone’s names, and started assigning pieces of her life—doctor’s appointments to my brother, groceries to my sister, daily check-ins and bills to me—because caring for her had become too much for only one of us.
My brother sighed when I asked him to take over her doctor appointments.
“I can’t always leave work,” he said.
"Neither can I," I snapped. "But somebody has to. If you schedule them, we can rotate taking her.”
My sister stared at the ground before finally agreeing to get her groceries.
Outside, the neighbor's dog began to bark, filling the awkward silence.
Even after delegating tasks, my phone still rang first when something went wrong. How was I the one left carrying the load?
The following week, Mom stood in the kitchen, staring at her pill organizer.
"Tuesday?"
“It’s Thursday,” I said gently, pointing to the oversized calendar.
She frowned, "Good thing you're here to babysit me."
At Sunday dinner, my brother scheduled her upcoming appointments onto her phone, while my sister promised to go grocery shopping for her.
Mom looked at us. “I don’t know what I’d do without you all.”
I shifted uncomfortably. Gratitude hadn't been Mom's strong suit.
She reached for another olive. “Can you believe I spent years hating these?”
“You spent years making the rest of us hate them too,” I said.
My siblings chuckled, but Mom didn't laugh. She kept staring at the small, dark fruit in her hand.
I remembered the woman who'd found fault with all my choices.
As Mom turned the olive between her fingers, searching for a memory that wasn't there, I realized I'd give anything to argue with that woman one more time.
Barb DeMoney is a writer whose work spans romance, horror, comedy, thriller, and mystery. Her stories have appeared in Micromance Magazine, Flash Phantoms, Lunch Ticket, Rat Bag Lit, and Sudden Flash among others. When not writing, Barb enjoys hiking, yoga, reading, concerts, and spending time with her family and dogs.
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