NYTimes

One afternoon at the hospital, near the end of my grandmother’s life, my aunt huddled behind a television, fumbling with cables. Suddenly my grandmother said, “I’m sorry to hear about Nick.”

My aunt stopped fidgeting with wires and peeked out from behind the television. “What about Nick?”

“I heard he only has three months to live,” my grandmother said. “I’m sorry.”

My aunt, stunned and disappointed, sat quietly calculating what this meant. After two and a half years, was this really the end?

A couple of weeks later, my grandmother passed away at hospice with my mother and aunt by her side.

For victims of Alzheimer’s, whole lifetimes vanish. For their loved ones, faith is tested and perseverance tried.

But to see Nick’s fictional life stretched before us like a partly painted canvas proved that even memory loss couldn’t shatter my grandmother’s hope that my aunt would receive all she deserved.

Playing along with my grandmother kept us close to her, even as she was being taken from us. It was easier for us to live a lie. But with Nick’s death, we discovered our strength as a family. We were no longer pretenders. We were believers.