I was always known as “the responsible one”—the one who remembered birthdays, sorted medicines, paid bills, and showed up before anyone even asked. So when my Nana turned 80 and life began slowing her down, I naturally stepped in. Groceries, medications, errands, even her TV remote—I handled it all. Not out of duty, but love. But one afternoon, everything changed. She sat at the table with my notebook open, her voice sharp and unfamiliar: “Quit pretending to care. You just want my money.”
She had read a single line: Call attorney about estate transfer—but not the part that followed: in case of emergency. She believed I was planning her death. I left heartbroken. Two days later, she called in tears after realizing the misunderstanding. But something deeper was happening—her memory was slipping. A month later came the diagnosis: early-stage dementia.
