No one prepares you for having a parent with Alzheimer's. No one taught me how to react when my mother couldn't recognize me. There wasn't a course in school, or an FYI in a newsletter sent to my email account. I was all on my own. Uncle Jim returned home after I moved back in. As time wore on, he'd developed his own need for care: he'd fallen a few months back, and the injury required a hip replacement. Even though the recovery time wasn't very long, I knew I couldn't ask him to be the man of my house any longer. He did his part, and now it was time to do mine.

My days consisted of waking my mother around eight in the morning for breakfast. Every morning, I cooked eggs, toast, and bacon; it used to be her favorite. Most days, though, she refused to eat. Some days, she threw her tray at me, and on rare occasions, she hid it under her pillow. I couldn't trust her to eat a meal without causing some sort of trouble. Sometimes, I spoonfed her because she refused to use the utensils. Others, I watched her chew and swallow every bite. She also tended to hoard her pills. Her doctor prescribed a sedative for when her outbursts grew uncontrollable. A few times, though, I found a stash of the medicine under her pillow. I didn't know why she did this, and she probably didn't know why, either.

I saved a good amount of money while serving considering I didn't own a house, a car or have a family. But now that my mother was my main priority, most of the money I'd saved went to her care. The money my father left us went toward the mortgage and other bills; however, he didn't leave as much money for us as I presumed. I had no guesses as to where most of his money went, and I was afraid to dig into the matter in case something I found tarnished his memory. I couldn’t help but feel angry, though. All those hours he worked late, and what did he have to show for it? But, I embraced my new life and worked my damndest to take care of my mom.

Outside of caring for my mother, my entire life stood at a standstill. Hudson continued to serve, and while we stayed in communication, it wasn't quite the same after I left the military. I didn't have time to go out socialize, make new friends, or even find a woman. My days consisted of taking care of my mom from sun up to sun down and all the time in between.

I talked to a girl I met online. We emailed every day, but she grew annoyed when I couldn't meet up in person. I explained to her about my mother having Alzheimer's, but I couldn't ask her to wait around forever. We stopped talking after a few months, and the loneliness crept back in.

One morning, when I woke my mom up for breakfast, she peered at me differently than usual.

"William? Is that you?"

My heart leaped out of my chest.

Was she lucid?

"Mom? Do you know who I am?"

She studied me carefully. "What's going on? Something doesn't feel right."

The doctors told me this was possible, that on a random day, at a random time, she could become herself again. But there was no way to tell how long it would last.

I sat down beside her on the bed and pulled her into a tight embrace. "I've missed you, Mom."

"Missed me? Where have you been? When did you get back from your tour?"

"This is going to be hard to hear, but I have to tell you something."

"What is it, sweetie?" The familiar twinkle in her eyes shattered me. I wanted to bottle up this moment to keep until the day I died.

"Mom, you have Alzheimer's. I left the service to take care of you. This is the first time you've recognized me in a very long time."

Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she sobbed on my shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Son. I never wanted to put you through this. I love you."

"I love you, too. I'm here for you, okay?"

"Are you married? Do you have kids? I feel like I'm missing out on your entire life." She wept.

"No. I'm not married, and I don’t have kids."

"Are you seeing anyone?" Hope hung on her words.

I looked at her sorrowfully.

"You don't have time to meet a nice girl, do you?"

"I like taking care of you. I don't mind."

She nodded, understanding her role in my life. For eighteen years, she took care of me, and now that I was all grown up, I took care of her.

"You shouldn't have to live like this," she croaked between sobs.

"It's my choice, Mom!"

"You should put me in a home."

"Never. I'm here for you."

Then, she whispered, "I miss your father, but I suppose if I don't know who I am, I can't miss him while I'm sick. Right?"

I nodded.

"Maybe there is a silver lining in this whole thing."

For the next two hours, we caught up. I told her a few war stories, and we reminisced about my father, too. It felt like I had my mom back, but I knew it was temporary, and so I cherished every single second. Once the sun began to set, though, a pang of confusion struck her, and I knew it was time... Time to say goodbye.

"Where am I?" she asked suddenly.

"Mom, you're home. You're safe."

"William? What's going on? Who are you?"

"It's me, Mom."

She reached out and cupped my face in her hands. "Why are you here?"

I nodded as a tear fell down my cheek and landed on her hand.

"I want to sleep, William, but I feel antsy. May I have my medicine?"

I unlocked her nightstand and pulled out the medicine bottle. I glanced around and realized her glass of water stood empty on her dresser. I stood to refill the glass.

"I'll be right back, Mom. Will you be okay for a minute?"

"Yes, dear." She waved me off.

I returned a few minutes later with a fresh glass of ice-cold water. However, my mom had already fallen asleep.

She must have been more tired than she thought. Probably from the excitement of remembering.

That night, I lay in bed and contemplated my life. I missed my dad; I missed Spence, and I missed Hudson. I missed the life I hadn't lived yet, and I missed being a soldier. I felt as though time was passing me by, and I couldn't catch up. My life felt like a speeding train disappearing down the tracks and out of view. Would I ever be in control of my life again?

* * *

The following morning, my alarm woke me at seven in the morning. I realized my mom slept through the night without waking up. Most nights, she woke up once or twice, confused and angry. Last night, though, she didn't.

I went to her room, and she lay there, motionless.

"Mom, it's time to wake up. You've been sleeping a long time."

She didn't move. Her chest didn't rise. Her skin appeared blue and lifeless. Dread flooded my entire body as I knelt beside her. She wanted peace. She didn't want to be a burden to me anymore. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the pill bottle still on the nightstand; I never put it away. When I picked it up, it was empty. Not one single pill remained.

My father died, Spence died, and now my mother was another body to add to the list of the deceased. I'd never felt so alone in my life.

* * *

You know the saying, "Money doesn't grow on trees?” Well, it's true. My mother's funeral cost thousands upon thousands of dollars, which drained my checking account. Then, I received a handful of medical bills in the mail for my mother's treatment and appointments, which took hold of my savings account. Not only did I feel as though I was spiritually drowning, but now I was overwhelmed with bill after bill after bill.

The job market was tough in New York, too. I couldn't find a job anywhere, not even McDonald's. Oh, and I tried everywhere, believe me. I even went as far as to beg the local schools for a janitorial position. None were hiring. In a few short months, I went from being a badass soldier to a jobless orphan. I had held the world at my fingertips, and now the world crushed me with its unforgiving wrath.

If my father's passing was the worst day of my life, and my mother's and Spence's deaths followed closely, the next worst day came when I checked the mail on a sweltering August morning. The letter from our bank advised our mortgage was in default, and I had thirty days to leave before the bank foreclosed on the house. When I finished reading the letter, I broke out in hysterical laughter. I laughed so hard I cried and then continued until my belly hurt. Was this my life now?

I could have called Uncle Jimmy and asked for the money, but he’d done enough to help me and my family. I couldn’t put the burden of a loan on his shoulders, too.

Not wanting to spend the next thirty days waiting for my home to be taken away from me, I sold what I could and packed up the rest of my belongings, which were minimal. I kept family photo albums, my mother's jewelry, and a few other random keepsakes.

For a few months, I crashed with various friends from school. However, this wasn’t a permanent solution. Without a job, I couldn’t afford an apartment, and without an apartment, I couldn’t find a job. During the interviews I’d been afforded, the hiring managers asked about my permanent address since I’d left it blank on my applications. Once I told them my situation, I never heard back. It was a revolving door of rejections. It didn’t take long to run out of friends to stay with. It didn’t take long to realize I only had one option left: to live on the streets.