When we pull into the Maple Glen Assisted Living Facility, I can see the shift in her posture—the way her shoulders steel themselves, and her chin lifts just a little. This is her ‘daughter armor’.
I don’t wear it as well as she does—but I wear another one, that of being her friend. Only one of us is allowed to break down at a time. So, when we leave Anya, I will be the stronger one.
Anya was elegance and softness, armored in the fierce devotion of a mother. When we were in high school, she used to bring us hot chocolate, and she always remembered that I liked mine with a dash of cinnamon. She cried when I got into UVM, and hugged me like I was her own when I lost my parents in that terrible car crash sophomore year. She raised me, took care of me. She and Ivan were my second chance, mybonusparents. It’s not easy to see her like this—but she’s still with us, and I cling to that.
The nurses greet us kindly, gently, like they’ve already started to prepare us to say goodbye.
Anya is in a recliner near the window, a blanket pulled over her legs. Her eyes are closed, and for a second, panic seizes my heart.
“She’s just resting,” the nurse reassures us. “She’s had a peaceful morning.”
Katya crouches beside her mother and touches her hand. “Hi, Mama. It’s me.”
Anya’s eyes flutter open. Cloudy…but warm. “Katyenka,” she whispers. “And my Mia.” She looks at me and smiles.
Katya lets out a soft, tearful laugh at the old nickname. “That’s right, Mama. Your girls are here.”
I kneel beside Katya, my throat tight. “Hi, Anya.”
Her gaze shifts slowly between us, and for one shining, fleeting moment, it’s like she’s back—present. Not the fading echo of the sharp, brilliant woman who used to bake blueberry blinis from memory, or talk to me about taking care of myself.
Just for a heartbeat, her face lights up like it used to. Like she knows us.
“You both look tired,” she murmurs, her accent faint but still intact. “Have you been dancing all night?”
Katya nods, tears slipping down her cheeks. “You know us, Mama. We closed the place down.”
Anya chuckles, a whisper of sound. “Beautiful girls.”
Then it’s like someone turns a dimmer down. Her eyes lose focus, drifting somewhere just behind us, and her smile fades. She slumps slightly, her hand going slack in Katya’s.
The moment is gone.
Katya leans forward, brushing Anya’s hair back from her forehead. “I brought you your lotion, Mama. The rose water one.”
I take the bottle from Katya and unscrew the cap. I smooth a little onto Anya’s hands. Her skin is paper-thin and cool, but the scent fills the air like memory. She doesn’t respond, but there’s a tiny flicker in her fingers.
Maybe she feels it. Maybe she doesn’t.
Katya talks about the crocuses blooming in thegarden outside, and how warm it was in Burlington last week.
I tell her about the kids at school—how one of the boys accidentally glued his sleeve to the craft table.
We pretend like she’s listening, like she’ll laugh at the funny parts and give advice at the quiet ones.
Because this is what love is, I think. Staying even when the light has dimmed. Speaking when there may be no one left to hear you. Holding on to pieces of the person you loved, even when those pieces begin to slip through your fingers.
Katya grips her mother’s hand tightly. “I love you, Mama. And Mia loves you.”
So for the next little while, we sit there. Talking. Remembering. Holding the space between who she was and who she’s become.
When Anya falls asleep, Katya excuses herself to talk to the doctor.
I sit with Anya, watching the woman who helped raise me slip further away.
“I love you,” I whisper, my hand over hers. “Thank you for loving me when I didn’t have anyone else.”
Her lips move in the faintest smile in her sleep, like she can hear me.
