For the last four years of my mother’s life, she did not know my name.

Dementia slowly took many things from her. Memories faded, and conversations became shorter if we had them at all. At first, that loss hurts. You realize the person who once knew everything about you can no longer remember something so simple.

But over time, you learn that memory is not the only place love lives.

My mother may not have known my name, but she knew comfort. She knew a familiar voice, a hand to hold, and a doughnut to eat. In the end, I realized something important. Even if my mother could not remember my name, she still knew she was not alone.

And sometimes, that's enough.