“Stop it.”
Those two words sounded different from everything Lila had said in the yard.
No sympathy.
No patient-caregiver voice.
Just anger.
Margaret’s shoulders tightened instinctively.
I noticed.
So did Lila.
She softened immediately.
“Daniel, please.
I know how this looks.
You’ve been gone.
You haven’t seen the progression.”
“Then tell me.”
She folded her arms.
“Your mother started forgetting appointments.
She misplaced things.
She accused me of moving her belongings.
Then she started saying I was trying to get rid of her.”
“Were you?”
The question landed harder than I expected.
Lila stared at me.
“I was trying to get her help.”
“By locking her in a room?”
“For short periods when she was agitated.”
Margaret shook her head.
“The first time was six weeks ago.”
Lila snapped toward her.
“You don’t know what day it is half the time.”
“Thursday,” my mother replied instantly.
“You locked me in at nine twelve this morning.
Mrs.
Carter came over at nine forty.
Daniel’s car arrived a little after ten.”
Silence filled the hallway.
Margaret looked at me.
“I started writing down times when I realized she was telling people I couldn’t remember them.”
I unfolded another page.
The handwriting was consistent.
Each entry was brief, practical, almost painfully ordinary.
Monday — Lila told Mrs.
Carter I left the stove on.
I did not cook Monday.
Tuesday — bedroom locked 2:15 until 5:20.
Lila had visitor downstairs.
Wednesday — asked for phone.
Lila said I lost it.
She took it last week.
Another entry stopped me.
Lila told Daniel on call that I was sleeping.
I was awake and asked to speak to him.
I remembered that call.
Two weeks earlier.
I had asked to say hello to Mom.
Lila had told me she was asleep.
I looked up.
