Visits to my mum follow a predictable path. She recognises me as I walk in. I sit with her and hold her hand. She asks me how everyone is – her eyes betraying the internal struggle to remember who the people are that I am talking about. They are her grandchildren, her daughter-in-law. The conversation is punctuated by repeated questions. My answers are honed sharp by repetition.
“I’m ready to go home whenever you are.”
“No mum, you live here now – you’ve got your own lovely room over there.”
