I went to visit my mother at her nursing home, just like I did every weekend, banana bread and a warm cardigan in hand. But when I got to the front desk, the receptionist gave me a confused look and said, “She was discharged last week.” I froze. “What do you mean? I didn’t discharge her.”

Denise, the receptionist, checked again. According to the records, her daughter had signed her out. But the name they gave wasn’t mine — it was Lauren.

Lauren. My estranged sister who had vanished ten years ago after a bitter fight with our mom. The same sister who never called, never wrote, and ignored the message I sent years ago about Mom’s early dementia.

Now, she had taken Mom — without my knowledge — and left no trace. I searched everywhere. Her old number was dead, her Facebook inactive. Then I found a new Instagram profile: “The Sunrise Caregiver.” There was a photo of Lauren, smiling, holding our confused, fragile-looking mother’s hand. The caption read: “Caring for the woman who gave me life. #FamilyFirst.”

Lauren cried, claimed she found Mom in terrible condition. But the judge saw the truth in my documentation — and in the voicemail that broke everyone’s heart: “You’re the only one who visits, honey. Love you.”The court granted me emergency guardianship.

That afternoon, I brought Mom back to her room, put the robin calendar on the wall, and sat beside her with lemon muffins. Her memory was fading, but when she whispered “You came,” I knew I had done the right thing. She may not remember everything, but I do. And I’ll keep showing up. Every time.