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Every Morning, My Eight-Year-Old Said Her Bed Felt “Too Small.” When I Checked the Camera One Night, I Finally Understood Why.

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Margaret had been a widow for most of her life. She lost her husband when Daniel was just a boy and never remarried. She worked endlessly to raise him on her own, taking whatever jobs she could find. Cleaning. Laundry. Early morning food stalls.

Daniel once told me that there were days she barely ate so he could have proper meals. Even after he left for college, she mailed him small amounts of money, folded carefully, as if it were all she had to give.

She lived simply. Quietly. Without complaint.

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In recent years, though, we had noticed changes.

She would forget where she was. She once became lost on a familiar street and was found hours later, frightened and confused. Occasionally, she called me by the wrong name. Once, she looked at Daniel and asked who he was.

Doctors spoke gently about memory decline. About confusion that might come and go. We adjusted where we could. We never imagined nighttime wandering.

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