—Mom? —Lucia asked.
Consuelo blinked.
—Nothing. My thought went away.
But Mateo saw it.
Two months later the diagnosis came: cognitive impairment with probable progression to dementia.
Lucía left the office without crying. He got into the truck and stared at his hands.
—He’s going to need someone nearby —said.
—Yes —Matthew answered.
—Rogelio can’t. Neither does Elena.
Mateo started the engine.
—Then he comes with us.
Lucia looked at him.
—Mateo… my mother was unfair to you all her life.
He was silent for a few seconds.
—I don’t do it because of what she did. I do it for you. And because it is the right thing to do.
Doña Consuelo arrived at Mateo’s house in March, with two suitcases and the expression of someone who does not know how to receive help. Mateo had prepared a room by the window, with a comfortable chair, a low lamp and a pot of gannets, his favorite flowers.
When she saw the plant, she stood still.
—How did you know?
—Lucia told me.
Did not answer. He just ran his hand over a green leaf, as if touching a memory.
The first months were hard. Sometimes she would wake up at dawn calling her husband dead. Sometimes he asked about his children as if they were still children. Sometimes he got angry because he didn’t recognize the house.
Mateo learned not to contradict her.
If she asked about her husband, he said:
—You went to the market, Mrs. Consuelo. Right now come back.
If he asked about the children, he would answer:
—They are at school. They arrive after a while.
One night Lucía asked him:
—How do you know what to say?
Matthew answered:
—I learned it with my dad, when he got sick. Sometimes the truth doesn’t calm. Sometimes calm is also a form of love.
On good days, Doña Consuelo watched.
He saw Mateo get up before the sun, work the land, eat with them again, check that she took her medicines and sit next to her when the afternoon scared him.
I watched Lucía comb her hair, bathe her, read her old recipes so she remembered smells.
I watched Daniel and Camila sit with her after school.
—Grandma —Daniel told her one afternoon—, when you don’t remember us, we are going to remember you.
Doña Consuelo cried without fully understanding why.
