Saturday arrived softly, bathed in warm sunlight that gently seeped through the curtains, casting beautiful patterns on the walls. It promised a sense of calm I had been longing for all week.

The chaos of my workdays had left me feeling mentally drained, often consumed by memories I wanted to forget—especially the ones involving my ex-husband, Adam, whose absence still echoed painfully in my heart.

But today, there was a sense of hope. I had plans for the evening—dinner with James, whose laughter always had a way of warming something inside me that had long been cold.

I brewed myself a calming cup of chamomile tea, the fragrance rising like a soft whisper, offering a sense of comfort. With the warm cup in my hands, I sank deeply into my favorite armchair, feeling its cushions mold to my form.

Just as I was about to dive into the pages of my book, the sudden ring of the doorbell broke the peaceful quiet.

I let out a small sigh, gently setting the tea down, and walked over to the door.

Opening it, I found Patricia standing there with a bright smile. Her graying hair was neatly styled into soft waves, framing her kind face.

Her eyes—clear and gentle—held a hint of confusion, and in her hands, she carefully held a freshly baked cherry pie, its delicious scent wafting toward me.

“Clara, my dear!” Patricia greeted, stepping forward with a warm embrace. “I brought Adam’s favorite pie. Where is he?”

My heart sank, as it always did when Patricia forgot. It had been almost a year since Adam and I had separated.

The divorce had been painful, and Patricia’s memory loss made it even harder to navigate.

“Oh, Patricia,” I said gently, forcing a smile as I took her arm, guiding her inside. “Adam isn’t here right now, but please, come in.”

She stepped inside without hesitation, looking around with a familiar comfort, as if she belonged. A small pang of guilt tugged at my chest as I watched her.

My words weren’t exactly true, but I couldn’t bear to tell her the painful reality of our situation.

Patricia had always treated me like a daughter, and the thought of hurting her again felt too cruel.

“I’m so glad you came,” I said softly, hoping my voice masked the sadness lurking inside me. “Let’s sit down and enjoy that pie. It smells lovely.”

Her smile grew wider, her eyes glistening with genuine joy. “I’m so happy to see you, Clara. It’s always good to be with you.”

As Patricia sat at the kitchen table, her hands carefully folded in her lap, her eyes sparkled with excitement as she began to recount her pie recipe once again.

“You must remember, Clara,” she said earnestly, leaning in as if about to share a great secret.

“Just a pinch of cinnamon. Too much can ruin the whole thing. Cinnamon is a tricky spice, you know?”

“Yes, Patricia, I’ll remember,” I replied softly, trying to suppress the rising impatience inside me.

I had heard these same words countless times before, and today, with my evening plans slipping away, it became harder to remain patient.

She smiled sweetly, her gaze drifting to the window as she sighed contentedly. “I’m glad you’ll remember. Adam always loved this pie. Maybe tonight, he’ll join us for dessert. It’s been far too long since we’ve all been together.”

My throat tightened as her words brought back memories I had tried to bury. The kitchen suddenly felt small and suffocating.

“Maybe,” I replied quietly, my voice barely holding steady. “I’ll be right back, Patricia.”

I quickly stepped out of the kitchen, grabbing my phone. Anger and frustration simmered in my chest as I dialed Adam’s number.

After a long pause, he finally answered, sounding distracted.

“What’s up, Clara?” he asked, clearly busy.

“Your mom’s here again,” I said, my voice sharp but quiet. “Can’t you do something about it?”

Adam sighed deeply, irritated. “I told you, Clara. The caregiver should be handling this.”

“That’s your excuse? She’s your mother!” My voice wavered, and I fought back the rising tears of anger.

“I have work, Clara,” he replied flatly, his tone final. “I can’t keep dropping everything just because she wanders off.”

I hung up without saying another word, familiar bitterness flooding through me. Adam was always full of excuses, never willing to take responsibility.

I took a deep breath and returned to Patricia, trying to calm myself. I softened my voice, not wanting her to sense my distress.

“Patricia, can I call a cab for you? I have plans tonight,” I explained gently.

She smiled at first, her eyes full of trust, but then her face suddenly twisted in pain.

Her hand went to her forehead, and she bent forward in her chair.

“My head… it hurts so much,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

Panic swept through me, my heart racing in my chest.

“Where are your pills, Patricia?” I asked quickly, my voice shaking with concern.

“In my purse,” she murmured faintly, her eyes squeezed shut.

I hurriedly grabbed her bag, my hands trembling as I searched through it.

Finally, I found the small bottle of medication, but there was something else tucked inside—a folded note from the doctor.

Curiosity drove me to open it quickly, scanning the neatly typed words.

Shock hit me like a wave, stealing my breath. The note clearly read: “Patient shows no signs of dementia.”

My voice trembled as I asked, “Patricia… what does this mean?”

She slowly met my gaze, her eyes clear, filled with deep shame.

“Clara, please… forgive me,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

My heart tightened painfully. “You’ve been lying to me?” I asked, hurt and confusion lacing my words. “Why, Patricia? Why would you do this?”

Her gaze dropped to her trembling hands, tears beginning to form in her eyes.

“Because Adam stopped caring,” she admitted quietly, her voice fragile.

“After your divorce, he barely spoke to me anymore. It felt like I was just another problem he didn’t want to deal with. But you, Clara—you always treated me like family. You listened. You were kind.”

She paused, her breath shaky, before continuing. “Pretending I had dementia was the only way I could keep seeing you, without feeling ashamed.”

Her words cut through me, and guilt washed over me as I realized the depth of her loneliness.

“I didn’t know,” I whispered, tears welling up in my eyes. “I’m so sorry, Patricia.”

“No, Clara, I’m sorry,” she replied, her voice shaking with grief. “I had no right to deceive you.”

Before I could say anything else, the doorbell rang, breaking the heavy silence.

I quickly opened the door to find James standing there, holding a bouquet of flowers.

His warm smile faded when he saw the distress in my face. Concern filled his eyes.

“Clara, is everything okay?” he asked softly, his voice full of care.

I hesitated, unsure of how to explain the situation.

I looked back at Patricia, who was now quietly gathering her things, preparing to leave.

“Mark, I’m sorry,” I said, my voice trailing off. “Something came up.”

He nodded, understanding in his eyes. “We can have dinner another night. Don’t worry about it.”

“Thank you,” I whispered, accepting the flowers. He smiled gently before turning away, disappearing into the quiet evening.

Turning back into the house, I found Patricia still standing, her coat on.

“Wait,” I said softly, stepping closer. “Stay. I’ve canceled my plans. Let’s spend the evening together.”

Patricia looked up, surprised. “You still want me here?” she asked, uncertainty in her voice.

“More than ever,” I assured her, my voice steady. “Please, Patricia, stay. Let’s talk.”

She slowly removed her coat and sat down again, her movements calmer.

The evening sky outside darkened as we shared our conversation, and for the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel alone.