It was the kind of night that makes headlines in small towns—a Michigan blizzard so fierce it swallowed the streets. That’s when a stranger named Derek carried my 91-year-old mother through it, saving her life after her own sons had failed her.
My mother, Ruth, is a fragile woman—ninety pounds, four-foot-ten, sharp in moments but lost in others. She has dementia. She also has two sons: me, Michael, living in Florida, and my brother Tom, twenty minutes from her assisted living facility in northern Michigan.
Eight years ago, I moved south because I was tired. Tired of middle-of-the-night calls, endless appointments, the slow, grinding heartbreak of watching someone fade. I convinced myself she’d be better cared for in a professional setting. That was the lie I told to sleep better.
On January 17, the facility called Tom—Mom had fallen and needed X-rays. He claimed he was stuck in meetings and told them to “figure it out.” When they mentioned an $800 non-emergency ambulance fee, he refused. Then he called me to complain. I told him to do what he thought was best, and hung up.
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