It has been seven years since the day my sister and I sat with our mom in the doctor’s office and heard the official diagnosis: dementia.
Over these years she has faded from the vibrant, talkative woman who used to sing lullabies and fill a room with laughter into someone more distant, quieter, and increasingly fragile. I accept, with a heavy heart, that her earthly address may soon change to the golden streets of Heaven, but that knowledge does not make the present any easier.
I have cried many, many tears during this long goodbye. The ache of losing the person my mother once was feels sharpest on the hard days—when my heart breaks and the world seems lonely. On those days I want, more than anything, to pick up the phone and hear her calm, wise voice helping me think things through, to share in the kind of laughter that used to make everything seem lighter.
But the other day was different. It was a day full of anticipation, of waiting and preparing and wondering what would happen next. There were phone calls and texts, paperwork and signatures. And then we got the call that changed everything: our offer had been accepted.
For a few moments, as I celebrated with a squeal and a little dance, I forgot the present reality of my mother’s health and remembered instead the person who used to be on the other end of the line. I wanted to call her immediately—just to share the news and hear her joy.
So, for a little while, I played a game in my head: pretend you’re my mom and the phone is ringing. Ring…ring… After the greetings, she would ask the simple question she always asked because she already knew the background: “Well…???”
“We got the house!” I would exclaim, half laughing, half crying. We would both laugh and interrupt each other with pieces of the story. I would tell her how we narrowed our choices to three and placed an offer on our favorite. It had only been on the market for two days, so we moved quickly. There was another bid, which meant a multiple-offer situation, and I honestly expected it to fall through—but it didn’t.
As we drove to the mountain-top wedding I wrote about earlier, the text I had been praying for arrived: “Your offer was accepted. The contract is signed.” I would explain to her that until the subjects are lifted in about two weeks anything could still go awry, but for now the contract was signed and my heart was full. I found myself planning furniture layouts, imagining where to place favorite pieces, and letting myself fall in love with the little townhouse that could be ours in just a couple of months.
She would have rejoiced, saying, “I’ve been praying God would work out all the details, and He sure is!” And I would have agreed—yes, He is.
As the imagined conversation continued, I pictured her booking a flight the moment she heard the news so she could come help us move. That’s the kind of thing she would do—drop everything to show up with practical support, warm hands, and a ready laugh. Since you have been so good about playing along and pretending to be my mom for a moment, you can skip the surprise visit. I don’t know what I would do if a caravan of loved ones arrived at my door with moving boxes and a willingness to help!
Thinking through that imaginary call reminded me of other precious memories—times when she joined in music with us and brightened ordinary moments with her voice. One of my most treasured posts documents the time she sang with us and remains a favorite memory. If you’ve been following our house-hunting journey, you know how the process began and how each step has felt both hopeful and uncertain.
For now, the contract is signed and we wait through the contingency period. I am allowing myself to celebrate this moment—the relief, the excitement, the practical daydreams—while also carrying the ache of missing my mother in the quiet places. Grief and joy exist together in these seasons; one does not cancel out the other. I will keep making phone calls, sorting paperwork, planning each step, and holding on to the memory of her steady, loving presence as I move forward into this next chapter.
