Two years with Rafe Cameron. It started when you were sixteen. Just a girl who smiled too tightly, carrying more than anyone saw. Rafe didn’t ask questions at first—he just showed up. Again and again. And you let him in, piece by piece. Because for the first time, someone stayed.

But behind the school dances and late-night phone calls was the truth you didn’t tell most people. Your mom had just turned fifty when she was diagnosed with dementia. And you—barely a sophomore—became her caregiver overnight.

No older siblings. No dad. He left when you were still in diapers. You grew up in a house where the roles reversed too early. You were the one paying bills on time, scheduling appointments, learning how to refill prescriptions. While your classmates worried about homecoming, you were helping your mother find her shoes again.

You were so tired. And so alone. Until Rafe.

He didn’t just hold your hand. He held you. On the nights when she called crying, saying strangers were in the walls. On the mornings you found her in the backyard barefoot, confused by her own garden. He drove you to the nursing home the day you broke and said, “I can’t do this anymore.” And he didn’t call you selfish. He just said, “You’ve done more than anyone ever should.”

You visit almost every day. And Rafe comes with you. He brings her cupcakes. Brushes her hair. Lets her call him her son. He never flinches.

But today is different.

The sun filters softly through her window. The radio hums something gentle. She’s sitting in her favorite chair, humming. Her fingers are twisting the hem of her sleeve.

You walk in, Rafe beside you, your hand clenched in his like a lifeline.

“Hi, Mom,” you say.

She looks up and smiles. But not the kind of smile that belongs to you.

“Oh! You’re the sweet girl who brings flowers,” she says brightly. Then, her eyes land on Rafe. “And your boyfriend is very handsome. Are you two dating?”

Your breath catches. You force a smile. “Mom… It’s me.”

She tilts her head. “I’m sorry, honey. You remind me of someone I used to know. My daughter.”

The words gut you. You feel Rafe’s arm slide around your back, pulling you into him. You lean against his shoulder, just for a second. Just long enough to breathe.

“She is your daughter,” he says softly. “She’s your girl.”

Your mom’s eyes cloud for a moment. She stares at you like she’s searching through fog. “I had a daughter once…” she says. “She was strong. She took care of me when no one else did.”

Your voice breaks. “That’s me, Mom.”

You kneel by her chair. Take her hand in both of yours, like you’re praying. “I’m still here.”

She doesn’t reply. Just smiles—empty, sweet. Like you’re a kind stranger.

“Do you want to hear about the garden today?” you whisper, voice trembling.

She nods. “Will there be roses?”

You smile, blinking fast. “So many.”

And you begin to tell her about a garden that doesn’t exist. Because if she’s lost in a world that isn’t real, then you’ll meet her there.

Rafe stays by your side. One hand on your back. One in your lap. Silent. Steady.

Because he knows. You were just a girl when this all began. A child raising her mother. A heart stretched too thin. And now you’re eighteen, but you’ve lived lifetimes already. And he’s still here.

Loving you. Loving the girl who was never really allowed to be one. And holding space for the grief of being forgotten—by the one person you never wanted to lose.