The Cry for Help Without the Tears

My job, if you can call it that, was to help Mum with the day-to-day care of Dad. I wasn’t here to judge, but in theory, I was the sanest person in the house as Dad had dementia, Mum was going doolally, and I was somewhere in between. So, there I was, a fifty-year-old man, recently separated from my wife with grown-up children of my own. I seemed a natural choice to move back in with my parents thirty years after moving out. I knew nothing about the perils of dementia, but then dementia knew …