Growing up, I didn’t think much about my mother having an inner world, desires of her own, or anything outside of just being my mom. She was just a steady presence in my day-to-day life that I took for granted – as I think many kids often do.

As I got older, left home, and started my own adult life, that shifted. I would call to get her chili recipe or to ask how to plunge a toilet. And those conversations would shift into more personal chats about life and love and how to navigate being a woman.

My mother became a confidante and friend too, and it became my habit to call her almost every day.

Once I had my own children, our relationship shifted yet again. How my heart could hold so much love for these babies of mine gave me new insight into how much mother must love me. And watching her love my children was a kind of magic I never expected.

My daughter, in particular, formed an extraordinary bond with my mother. When we would visit, the two of them would play paper dolls and Sleeping Beauty Castle for hours. My mother, a former librarian, would do read-alouds with my daughter that would bring me right back to my own childhood listening to my mom read to me.

As my daughter got older, I began to see many similarities between her and my mother. I have a childhood photo of my mom that reminds me of my daughter – they have the same eyes and brow shape. My daughter is a little more introverted like my mom. And then, my daughter also became a librarian! I’ve often joked that I gave birth to my mom reincarnated even though she was still alive.

When we began to notice my mom’s memory issues, we didn’t realize it could be the onset of dementia. I remember one trip home when she cried because she knew she was forgetting things, and I think it scared her. She was incredibly smart, and thinking that she was “losing it” had to have freaked her out.

Anyone who has watched a loved one decline from dementia knows what a terribly sad thing that is to witness. It’s a grieving process throughout the whole disease.

What I want to remember about my mom is her smile and the way she would laugh quietly when I made risqué jokes. I want to remember her reading books to my kids and spoiling them rotten when we would visit. I want to remember how she picked up the phone every day to talk to me no matter what was happening in my life.

I still go to call her sometimes and have to catch myself – remind myself she’s not on the other side of the phone anymore. I’d like to think she’s with her own mother and sisters, sitting on a porch swing, laughing, and drinking a Diet Coke.

Cheers, Mom. I love you.