It happened on a Tuesday.
I remember because Tuesdays used to be our market days. She would wake me up early, braid my hair too tight, and we would walk together holding hands, arguing about mangoes.
That Tuesday, I woke up to silence.
No clinking utensils. No humming.
I found her sitting at the dining table, staring at the wall clock.
"Ma?" I said softly.
She turned.
Her eyes were polite.
Polite.
"Good morning… Auntie."
I froze.
The word didn't hurt at first. It didn't register. It floated between us like something fragile and wrong.
"Auntie," she repeated, smiling uncertainly. "Are you here to see Aarohi?"
My body went cold.
"I am Aarohi," I whispered.
She laughed lightly, embarrassed for me.
"No, no… Aarohi is small. She's in school."
I felt something inside my chest collapse — not loudly, not dramatically — but like a building sinking into itself.
"Ma," I said carefully, kneeling in front of her. "Look at me."
She looked.
I searched her eyes desperately, like someone searching a burning house for something alive.
Nothing.
No flicker. No recognition.
Just confusion.
"You look tired, Auntie," she said kindly. "You should rest."
That was the moment I understood something cruel:
Alzheimer's does not just erase memories.
It replaces you.