I love my mother more when she forgets who I am

Dear Delyara, My mother has dementia, and some days she becomes kinder when she forgets I am her daughter. She smiles at me like a pleasant stranger, thanks me for making tea, and asks whether I have children. When she remembers me, the old criticisms return. My weight. My divorce. The career she never respected. The sister she always preferred. I have spent fifty years wanting tenderness from her, and now I receive it only when the disease removes my name. Yesterday, she held my hand and said, “You are such a nice young woman. Your mother must be proud of you.” I nearly laughed. Instead, I told her I hoped so. Ten minutes later, she recognized me and asked why I had not cleaned the kitchen properly. I went into the hallway and cried with relief because the cruel version of her meant part of my mother had returned. That is what dementia has done to my love: I miss the woman who hurt me when she disappears, and I feel safer with the woman who no longer knows me. I do not know which grief is more shameful.