I went to visit my mother at her nursing home, just like I did every weekend, banana bread and a warm cardigan in hand. But when I got to the front desk, the receptionist gave me a confused look and said, “She was discharged last week.” I froze. “What do you mean? I didn’t discharge her.”
Denise, the receptionist, checked again. According to the records, her daughter had signed her out. But the name they gave wasn’t mine — it was Lauren.
Lauren. My estranged sister who had vanished ten years ago after a bitter fight with our mom. The same sister who never called, never wrote, and ignored the message I sent years ago about Mom’s early dementia.
Now, she had taken Mom — without my knowledge — and left no trace. I searched everywhere. Her old number was dead, her Facebook inactive. Then I found a new Instagram profile: “The Sunrise Caregiver.” There was a photo of Lauren, smiling, holding our confused, fragile-looking mother’s hand. The caption read: “Caring for the woman who gave me life. #FamilyFirst.”