WE LEFT MOM AT THE NURSING HOME AND I CAN’T SHAKE THE GUILT

When I told Salome later, she didn’t say much. Just pressed her lips together and nodded. But the next afternoon, she was at the nursing home before I could even leave work. I showed up with some of Mom’s old scarves and crossword books and found Salome combing Mom’s hair, chatting like everything was normal.

Mom looked up and smiled when I walked in. “Oh, you brought my favorite one,” she said, reaching for a silk scarf she used to wear to church. I smiled, but inside I was breaking. How long would she even remember that was her favorite?

Days passed. We started visiting more often than we expected. At first it was out of guilt, I won’t lie. But then, it became habit. Mom had her moods—some days she was sharp, told us stories from her childhood we’d never even heard before. Other days, she’d ask where Dad was and cry when we reminded her. Those days were the worst.

One afternoon, something unexpected happened. We were visiting during bingo—Salome, the kids, and me. I saw a woman sitting next to Mom, laughing with her, touching her arm gently. She looked around my age.

“Who’s that?” I whispered to Carla, one of the nurses.

“That’s Renata. Her mom’s down the hall. She visits a lot and kind of… adopted your mom a little.”

I walked over and introduced myself. Renata smiled kindly. “Your mom’s sweet. She reminds me of my aunt.”

Over the next few weeks, Renata and I started talking more. We swapped coffee runs, traded stories, even cried once in the parking lot after a rough day. Somehow, this stranger became part of my support system.

And then, out of nowhere, Mom had a really good week. She remembered Salome’s birthday, sang half a song we hadn’t heard in years, even teased my son about his missing front tooth.

I realized then—it wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t all loss either.

One Saturday, we brought some of Mom’s old photo albums to the courtyard. She pointed at a picture of her and Dad dancing and said, “He stepped on my toes all night. But he looked so handsome, I didn’t care.”

I felt the guilt shift. Not disappear—but soften.

That day, as we walked back to the car, Salome stopped and said, “Maybe this isn’t giving up. Maybe it’s… loving her in a new way.”

And she was right.

We didn’t abandon Mom. We adjusted. We kept showing up. We found help, found community, found strength we didn’t know we had.

If you’re going through something like this—please know: doing what’s best doesn’t always feel good. But that doesn’t mean it’s wrong.

You can carry love and grief at the same time.

And you don’t have to carry it alone.

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Drop a comment below if you’ve been through something similar. Let’s talk.