Twenty-six. Calm smile. Soft voice. She showed up at Mom’s house in light-blue scrubs with a neat bun and sneakers that looked like they meant business. She had a binder under her arm. A binder.
We sat at the kitchen table, and she slid it toward me.
“I printed a sample care plan based on your mom’s discharge notes,” she said. “We can adjust it together.”
Mom perked up. “Oh, she’s organized,” she whispered to me later. “I like her.”
A nurse | Source: Freepik
Alyssa asked smart questions, listened to Mom’s opinions, didn’t talk over her, and didn’t treat her like a toddler. Her references were glowing. She lived fifteen minutes away and was working on a nursing degree.
It felt like an answer to prayer.
We hired her for weekdays and a short Sunday shift.
For the first few weeks, Alyssa was perfect. She cooked actual meals instead of Mom’s “toast and cheese” dinners. She made sure Mom took her meds. She got her through her PT exercises without making her feel pathetic. The neighbors loved her. She even dusted the tops of Mom’s picture frames, which I’m pretty sure hadn’t been dusted since Clinton was president.
A nurse working with a patient | Source: Freepik
Every Sunday after lunch, she took Mom for a slow walk around the block. Mom loved it—fresh air, a change of scenery, a chance to gossip about whose garden looked best.
Then something… shifted.
At first, it was tiny. Mom started coming back from those Sunday walks looking a little off. Not upset, exactly, just tense. Her smile felt forced, like she was holding something back.
“How was the walk?” I’d ask.
“It was nice, honey,” she’d say.
A woman taking a walk | Source: Midjourney
Same words, same tone. Every single week.
The first time, I believed her. By the fourth or fifth, my stomach started doing little backflips. My mother is many things, but she’s not a broken record.
Last Sunday, they came back, and I knew something was really wrong.
I was in the hallway when the front door opened. Alyssa’s hand hovered near Mom’s elbow, and Mom’s eyes were red and puffy. Not just tired. She looked shaken.
“That walk tired me out,” Mom murmured and headed straight for her room.
Her hand was trembling on her walker.
Alyssa gave me a quick smile. “She did well,” she said. “We took it slow.”
“Mm,” I answered, because I didn’t trust my voice.
Leave a Comment