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I accepted money to pretend I was an elderly woman’s son because I was desperate to keep my own mother alive. Then the woman I was deceiving began holding my hand as if I truly belonged to her, and after she passed away, the nursing home informed me that she had left one final request meant only for me.
The dashboard clock showed 11:47 when I parked my delivery van along the curb outside my mother’s apartment building. Rain turned the streetlights into long streaks of yellow across the windshield. I remained seated for a moment, mentally adding and subtracting expenses, weighing prescriptions against rent, only to arrive at the same impossible result.
I picked up the grocery bag and the small pharmacy package and headed up the three flights of stairs.
I wasn’t okay.
Mom opened the door before I had the chance to knock, just like she always did.
“You shouldn’t be out this late, dear.”
“Ma, I’m fine. Brought your blood pressure pills and that soup you like.”
She cupped my face in both hands. Her palms were warm, just as they had always been.
“You look tired, Jeremy.”
“I’m okay, Ma.”
I wasn’t okay.
I should have gotten up and left.
The next morning, I squeezed in a coffee delivery run between shifts. That was when a man sat down across from me without invitation.
Everything about him looked expensive.
“You’re Jeremy, right? A friend mentioned you. Said you might be looking for extra income.”
“Who’s your friend?”
“That’s not important. What matters is that I have a problem, and I think you’re the solution.”
I should have gotten up and left. Instead, I took another sip of coffee.
He pushed a folded stack of cash halfway across the table.
“My mother lives in a nursing home,” he said. “Her name is Rosie. She has dementia. On her better days, she tells anyone who’ll listen that her son never visits.”
“Then go visit her.”
For a brief moment, his gaze shifted toward the window.
“I can’t bear seeing her that way,” he said. “Business obligations. Relatives keep asking questions. Family friends too. It’s becoming a problem.”
He nudged the money closer.
“Five hundred a week. Weekend visits. Call her Mama. Pretend you’re Tim. That’s my name. She won’t know the difference, Jeremy. She doesn’t recognize who’s standing in front of her anymore.”
I should have refused. I nearly did.
My eyes drifted to the cash.
“That’s not right, Sir.”
“Right doesn’t pay your mother’s bills.”
The words struck exactly where he intended them to.
“How do you know about my mother?”
“I made a few inquiries. People know who you are, Jeremy. Good guy. About the right age. You fit the role.”
I should have refused. I nearly did.
“Just weekends?” I asked instead.
“Just weekends. Bring flowers if you want. Sit with her for an hour. Smile. Then leave.”
I nodded, already aware that I had agreed to become someone else.
My hand moved before my conscience could stop it. I pulled the cash toward me and felt its weight settle in my palm like a small stone.
“When do I start?”
He gave something close to a smile. For a moment, he looked like a man relieved to unload a burden onto someone else’s shoulders.
“Saturday. And Jeremy. Don’t get attached.”
I nodded, already aware that I had agreed to become someone else.
The nursing home’s hallway carried the scent of antiseptic mixed with fading roses. My palms were sweaty as I repeated the name Tim had coached me on over the phone the night before.
Room 214. I knocked once, opened the door, and stepped inside.
A surge of shame climbed into my throat.
Rosie sat near the window with a thin blanket resting across her lap. She slowly lifted her gaze and blinked into the afternoon light.
“Mama,” I said, the word unfamiliar on my tongue. “It’s me. Tim.”
For several seconds, she simply studied my face. Then her expression softened completely, and she reached out a trembling hand.
“There you are!” she whispered.
I crossed the room and took her hands. I had expected to feel detached, even clever. Instead, a surge of shame climbed into my throat.
Nobody had asked me those things in years.
“Sit, sit,” Rosie said, patting the chair beside her. “Have you eaten? You look tired.”
“I’m okay, Mama.”
“Are you sleeping enough, Timmy? You always pushed yourself too hard.”
Nobody had asked me those things in years. Not since my father left. Not since my mother became ill.
I sat beside her for an hour, mostly listening. Rosie spoke about a garden I had never visited and a dog I had never owned, and I nodded as though those memories belonged to me.
When I rose to leave, she squeezed my hand.
“Come back soon.”
“I will, Mama.”
As I turned toward the door, I looked back and saw tears glistening in her eyes. She quickly turned away and dabbed at them with the edge of her blanket.
Something about the way she said it made me avert my eyes.
On my second visit, I brought tulips. On the third, a small box of caramel chocolates that one of the nurses told me she enjoyed. By the fourth visit, I was showing up on a Wednesday, a day Tim had never paid for.
In the hallway, I met Margaret, a frail woman with observant eyes and a cardigan that hung loosely from her shoulders.
“You visit her a lot,” she remarked.
“She’s my mother.”
Margaret tilted her head. “She’s the sweetest soul here. You’re lucky.”
Something about the way she said it made me avert my eyes.
I started giving up lunch breaks just to drive across town.
Tim called that Friday. His voice was sharp.
“You don’t need to go during the week, Jeremy. This is a job. Keep it simple.”
“She gets lonely.”
“She has dementia. She forgets you the moment you leave.”
I tightened my grip on the phone. “Maybe. But she remembers while I’m there.”
He ended the call.
Weeks blurred into months. I started giving up lunch breaks just to drive across town. I read newspapers aloud to Rosie. I massaged her hands when her joints hurt.
I convinced myself it was only the dementia talking, words drifting loose from memory.
One afternoon, she leaned closer. Her breathing was shallow, but her eyes were clearer than I had ever seen.
“You’re a good man, son,” she said.
I nearly broke apart right there.
“Mama, I…”
“Shh.” She touched my cheek. “I know what I know.”
I didn’t understand her then. I convinced myself it was only the dementia talking, words drifting loose from memory.
“She left something for you.”
That night, I drove home thinking about my own mother and how rarely I sat with her the way I sat with Rosie. I promised myself I would do better. Call more often. Stay longer.
Two days later, my phone rang while I was loading boxes onto the truck.
It was the nursing home director.