Already moving into his new life, a life that doesn’t include us except when he needs money.
Years pass.
They blur together.
Thanksgiving becomes “maybe next year.”
Christmas becomes “we’re doing Vanessa’s family this year.”
Easter doesn’t even warrant an excuse.
They vacation in Tuscany, in Greece, in Bali, post pictures on Facebook showing off tanned skin and expensive wine and lives that look nothing like the one we gave them the foundation for.
We’re invited to visit once.
Derek calls in January.
“Why don’t you guys come up for a weekend? We just renovated the guest room.”
Hope flares in my chest.
Dangerous hope.
“Really? When?”
“How about March?”
We plan.
I buy new clothes, the first new clothes I’ve bought in three years.
Harold gets the car detailed.
We’re excited like kids planning Christmas.
Then Harold has a health scare.
His heart.
Probably nothing, but the doctor wants to run tests.
I call Derek immediately.
“Oh.”
His voice goes flat.
“Well, maybe we should postpone then.”
“It’s just tests. The doctor says it’s likely nothing.”
“Yeah, but Vanessa thinks it would be too stressful, you know, if something happened while you were here. Better to wait until Dad’s situation is resolved.”
Dad’s situation.
Like Harold’s potential heart condition is an inconvenience.
A scheduling conflict.
We never reschedule.
Derek never brings it up again.
And slowly, so slowly I barely notice, my son becomes a stranger who happens to share my last name.
Then Harold starts forgetting things.
Small things at first.
Where he parked the car.
What day it is.
Whether he took his medication.
I tell myself it’s normal aging.
Everyone forgets things at seventy-five.
But then he gets lost driving home from the grocery store.
The grocery store we’ve shopped at for forty years.
He calls me from a gas station eight miles in the wrong direction.
His voice is small.
Scared.
Young.
“Maggie, I don’t… I don’t know where I am.”
The diagnosis comes three weeks later.
Alzheimer’s disease.
Early stage, but progressing.
I call Derek from the doctor’s parking lot.
My hands shake so badly I can barely hold the phone.
He answers on the third ring.
“Hey, Mom. What’s up? I’m about to go into a meeting.”
“Your father has Alzheimer’s.”
Silence.
Then, “Oh. Oh, wow. That’s… I’m really sorry, Mom. That’s tough.”
Tough.
Like it’s a difficult math problem.
A challenging project at work.
“I thought you should know,” I say.
My voice sounds hollow.
“Yeah, absolutely. Thanks for telling me. Listen, I’ll call you later, okay? We’ll figure out a time to visit soon.”
Six months later, he finally comes.
Stays ninety minutes.
Spends most of it on his phone answering work emails.
Vanessa doesn’t come at all, something about a yoga retreat she’d already paid for.
Harold barely recognizes him, calls him “that nice young man,” and asks if he’s here to fix the roof.
Derek leaves looking relieved.
I watch his car disappear down Maple Street and realize my son isn’t coming back.
Not really.
Not in any way that matters.
And suddenly, I understand something terrible.
We didn’t raise Derek.
We created him.
Every time we gave when we should have said no.
Every time we sacrificed when we should have taught him sacrifice.
Every time we made his life easier, we made him weaker.
We built a man who takes everything and gives nothing back.
Harold doesn’t know my name this morning.
I’m standing in our bedroom doorway holding his medication. The pills that don’t really help anymore, but the doctors say keep giving them anyway.
And he’s looking at me like I’m a stranger who broke into his house.
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