In my experience, there are two kinds of women: those who spend a lifetime trying not to turn into their mothers, and those who literally seem to want nothing more. I often find both varieties get the complete opposite of what they hoped for – one set become carbon copies of the women they didn’t want to be, while the others never live up to their own expectations of who they think they should have become.

I head back to the car, not wanting to be seen.

I have been made a fool of on more than one occasion by the women inside this house. Anna has always been clear that she doesn’t want or need saving. Confusing the sound of a kettle with some kind of cry for help was probably just wishful thinking on my part. You can’t help someone find their way if they won’t admit they’re lost.

Her

Tuesday 10:18

I think my mother might have lost the plot, but keep my thoughts to myself. The kettle starts to scream and she takes it off the hob. Out of the corner of my eye, I think I see something move outside the kitchen window. But I must have imagined it, because when I go to check there is nothing there. I turn back and take in the state of the place again. Knowing her the way I do, I don’t know how she can stand it. When I was a teenager, I sometimes felt embarrassed that my mother cleaned other people’s houses. Now I feel ashamed of myself for caring what they thought. She did what she did for me.

Jack has emailed a few times over the last few months, to say that Mum was much worse than before. I thought it was just an excuse to get in touch; I didn’t believe him. When I look at the state of her now, I hate myself for it. Sometimes the roles of parents and children get reversed, and I have not played my part well. I didn’t just forget my lines, I never learned them in the first place.

Mum was constantly cleaning our home when I still lived here, almost obsessively – a habit I confess I inherited – and I have never seen the house, or her, look like this. Presentation was always very important to my mother. We never had a lot of spare cash, but she always dressed nicely – often finding the prettiest clothes in charity shops for us both to wear – and she always, always, did her hair and make-up. I rarely remember seeing her without it. She really was rather beautiful, but now she appears, and smells, as though she hasn’t washed for days.

‘How have you been, Mum?’

‘Me? Oh, I’m fine.’

She starts to open and close the kitchen cupboards, and I can see that they are almost all completely empty. Jack mentioned that she had been forgetting to eat and had lost some weight. He said she had been forgetting a lot of things.

‘I’m sure I had some biscuits around here somewhere—’

‘It’s OK, Mum. I’m not hungry.’

‘All right then, I’ll just make us the tea.’

I watch as she opens two different tins – she likes to blend it herself – then takes down the old teapot that stirs up a thousand memories of us doing this before. I do need a drink right now, but not tea. I should have come home sooner, I should have taken care of her, the way she used to take care of me. I had my reasons for staying away. Self-preservation is just one of them. I feel an urge to leave again now while I still can, but Mum grabs my arm.

‘Here, have this.’

I look down at the crystal tumbler of whisky, then back at her. She smiles, and it brings a strange sense of comfort to know that my mother knows me – even the worst version – and still seems to love me anyway.

My mum started drinking when my dad left, and despite her numerous claims over the years, I know that she never really stopped. I’ve always blamed her occasional memory loss on her desire to obliterate them all with alcohol. She was never a sociable woman. Her two best friends were wine and whisky, and they were always there when she needed them. Nobody else knew about how much she drank. She hid her habit well, and I learned that the best way to keep a secret is never to tell. Like mother, like daughter.

Jack brought up the subject of dementia a few times over the years, but I always dismissed it, certain that I knew my mother better than he did. Even when he described her worsening symptoms, I still thought it was manageable.

Perhaps I was wrong.

I can remember her forgetting small stuff, like the milk, or where she’d left her keys, or occasionally turning up to clean the wrong houses at the wrong times. But it was easy enough to explain away; the kind of forgetfulness that happens to us all. She forgot my birthday a couple of times, but it didn’t seem like a big deal, just one of those things. Besides, my birthday tends to be a day I would rather forget too.

Jack said she forgot where she lived a few months ago.

I thought he must be exaggerating, but now I don’t know what to believe. If dementia is taking my mother’s memories away, then I guess sometimes it gives them back. Despite appearances, she does at least seem coherent today. I drain my glass and wonder how bad it would be to pour another.

‘What are these?’ I ask, noticing a row of prescription pills lined up on the window sill.

The look on her face is hard to translate; an unfamiliar mix of fear and shame.

‘Nothing for you to worry about,’ she says, opening an empty drawer and hiding the little brown bottles inside.

My mother never takes drugs, not even paracetamol. She always thought that pharmaceutical companies would be responsible for the end of mankind. It was one of her more melodramatic theories on the world, but one she absolutely believed in.

‘Mum, you can tell me. Whatever it is.’

She stares at me for a long time, as though weighing up her options and concluding that the truth might be a little too heavy.

‘I’m fine, promise.’

I look around the filthy kitchen and say the words as gently as I can.

‘I think we both know that’s not true.’

‘I’m sorry about the mess, love. Nobody’s visited for so long. If I’d known you were coming… it’s just that I’ve been so busy trying to pack everything into boxes – there is a lifetime hidden away inside this house – and the pills make me so tired…’

‘What are the pills for?’

She stares down at the floor before answering.

‘People say I’ve been forgetting things.’

A ray of light from the kitchen window casts a pattern on her face, and she appears to feel the warmth of it. Her cheeks blush and her mouth cracks into an embarrassed smile.

‘What people?’ I ask.

A cloud must have covered the sun, because the light leaves the room and the smile slides off my mother’s face at the same time. She shakes her head.

‘Jack. I forgot to pay for my shopping at the supermarket a few weeks ago. I was so embarrassed. I don’t even know what I was doing there – you know how much I hate shops – but they showed me the security footage afterwards, and I watched myself walk straight past the tills and to the car park, with a trolley full of things I didn’t even need to buy; books by authors I don’t like, sirloin steaks – having not eaten meat for decades – and a pack of nappies!’

I look away and she hesitates while choosing her next words, as though regretting sharing the last ones.

‘What happened?’ I ask, still not quite able to look her in the eye.

‘Oh, they were very nice about it. But they did insist on calling the police. I had Jack’s number written inside my bracelet. They called him and he told them that he was the police, as well as my son, so they let him come and pick me up.’