Dorothy was sitting at her own kitchen table.
Her grandchildren were laughing. Candles were lit. Everyone was singing.
And she couldn't remember her grandson's name.
Not for a second, not for a moment — she just stood there, smiling, hoping nobody noticed. She looked at his little face and the name was simply gone.
"I knew him. Of course I knew him. He's my grandson. But I just stood there and nothing came."
That was the moment her daughter Sarah knew something was wrong.
Not aging. Not stress. Something else.
Dorothy was 64 years old. She had always been sharp. The one who remembered every birthday, every anniversary, every little detail about everyone she loved.
But over the past two years, something had changed.
She would lose words right in the middle of a sentence. She would walk into a room and have no idea why she was there. She would sleep nine hours and wake up feeling like she hadn't slept at all.
By two in the afternoon she was on the couch. Every single day.
Her grandchildren would come over and she just didn't have it in her to get on the floor and play with them the way she used to. She would sit and watch them. And she hated herself for it.
"I felt like I was disappearing," she says. "Like the real me was still in there somewhere but I just couldn't get to her."
Sarah started researching memory care facilities.
She didn't tell her mother. But she did.