The house felt too quiet after.
Her slippers still sat near the door.
Her favorite cup was still on the kitchen shelf.
Grief is strange.
You don't cry constantly.
You cry when you see a hairbrush.
Or hear a lullaby.
Or smell her perfume on an old saree.
I sat on her bed that evening, holding the blue diary I had found weeks ago.
I read the first page again:
If I ever forget you, Aarohi, remember that I loved you before you even had a name.
My tears fell onto the paper.
She forgot my face.
My voice.
My name.
But she never stopped being my mother.
And I never stopped being her daughter.
Even if I was the only one who remembered it.
That night, I stood by the window as rain began to fall again.
Soft.
Steady.
And for the first time since the diagnosis…
I didn't feel anger.
I felt gratitude.
Because even though Alzheimer's stole her memories…
It never stole the years we had.
And I carry them now.
All of them.
For both of us.