The day I admitted her to the care facility felt like betrayal.
The word facility sounded clinical. Clean. Distant.
But to me, it felt like surrender.
I had promised myself I would take care of her at home. That I would never let strangers handle her medicine, her meals, her fragile confusion.
But she had started wandering at night.
She had fallen twice.
And the doctor said gently, "You cannot carry this alone."
The room they gave her had pale blue walls and a window that faced a garden.
She didn't understand why we were there.
"Is this a hotel?" she asked.
"Yes," I lied softly. "A quiet one."
She nodded, satisfied.
When the nurse came to take her vitals, she smiled at her politely.
She was always polite to strangers.
She was unsure of me.
That was the part that cut deepest.
I stayed until visiting hours ended.
As I stood to leave, she looked at me curiously.
"Are you coming tomorrow?" she asked.
"Yes."
She hesitated.
"What is your name?"
The question didn't hit like before.
It didn't stab.
It hollowed.
"Aarohi," I said.
She repeated it slowly, like tasting a new word.
"Aa… ro… hi."
Then she smiled kindly.
"That's a pretty name."
I walked out of the room before she could see my tears.
Because I didn't want her last image of me that day to be someone breaking.