Now he mostly thinks I am my grandmother.

He calls me Mom. He does it comfortably, without distress, the way you’d greet someone you’re pleased to see. He apologizes to me for something he never specifies — I should have handled that better, I know, I know — and he pats my hand.

It does not count. I want to be very clear with myself about that, and I have had to be clear about it a great many times at four in the morning. He is not apologizing to me and he is not apologizing to her; he is running a worn groove in a damaged brain.

It is not an amends. It is a symptom.

I take it anyway. I have decided that is allowed.

There was one afternoon in the second November.