These days, my mother is closer to the dead than the living. Faces from the past fill her waking hours, names sliding from the ruin of her mind like prayer beads through greasy fingers. Dementia has erased any differentiation between past, present, and future. All time is now, the events of her life stacked like cards in a deck. Her mind is slippery, her memories coated with Teflon on one side, Velcro on the other. Recollection depends solely upon which side touches her brain. She speaks of her past at length, but her short-term memory is full of holes. She remembers her children, mostly though, increasingly we're “You, her, and the other one.” When I say my name, she brightens. “I have a daughter with that name!” When she looks at my father, momentary blankness descends. Sixty years married, three children, 10 grandchildren, six great-grandchildren, and she wonders, “Who is this man?” Meanwhile, Dad focuses his attention on the television, marshaling his emotions so as not to cry, although the pain is written clear on his face. He's done better with this than I expected—bearing in mind that “better” often means pushing through the days by staring straight ahead, afraid to peer too deeply at the growing shadows. “Better” also sometimes means biting the heads off those who care. We have good days and bad, but this is not a battle we can hope to win. The entire family is more vulnerable than we expected, each of us touched to one degree or another by fear, anger, and grief. Despite our best intentions, emotions catch us by surprise and run uncontrolled. Like bulls driven mad with pain, we gore each other with bitter words, heedless of the damage we do. There's no how-to manual for this. All advice is subjective, each situation its own particular hell. We knew we would cry, but no one warned us about her tears, those moments of terror and despair when she curls up in a ball and sobs like a child, abandoned in the deepening well of her own brain. “Where am I?” she asks of the house she has lived in for 20 years. “Why can't I go home?” Often, she nails herself upon a cross of recrimination: “I was a terrible mother. I didn't mean to make mistakes.” We do what we can to ease her distress: hold her and rock her, quiet her tears and terror, and try to explain what's happening, knowing full well she won't remember anything we say 2 minutes down the line. We endeavor to make her smile. We tell her we love her, we forgive her, that she's perfect just the way she is. “No, I'm not,” she says, her face wet with tears. “But you are.” Oh, God, if only that were so. But… Why does no one talk about the upside that may come with dementia, the unexpected gifts that open suddenly in your hands, leaving you breathless with surprise and gratitude? My mother has spent her life holding her emotions close, never letting them show. Alzheimer's has unlocked that gate, allowing her to roam, to share the burden. She laughs and makes jokes, something she rarely did before, and teases us with a gentleness we never knew as children. But the greatest gift, the unexpected prize at the heart of all this, has been the renewal of her relationship with my father. Both children of the depression, both raised in neglectful and sometimes abusive homes, they are tough nuts to crack. They are intensely private individuals, and neither has ever been one to outwardly show affection. Now all bets are off. Each evening before bed, my father kisses her goodnight. (In 53 years of life, I have seen them kiss only once until now.) They are solicitous of one another as never before—respectful, gentle, thoughtful, and caring, rather than the sarcasm I grew up with. It is a wonder to behold. If it had to come to this—if we had to walk the jungle trail of dementia to see this miracle occur—then I'm all for it. My parents have their love back—a love I never knew existed. And for that, I am grateful. Conflict of Interest: The editor in chief has reviewed the conflict of interest checklist provided by the author and has determined that the author has no financial or any other kind of personal conflicts with this paper. Author Contributions: Melissa Crandall-Everett is the sole author of this paper. Sponsor's Role: None.