A Cup of Tea and a Thousand Memories

Every morning starts the same. I make two cups of tea—one for Mum, one for me. She may not remember my name, but she always remembers, “Two sugars, love.” Funny how some things stick.

Mum was once unstoppable—a nurse, a choir singer, pavlova queen. Now she forgets where the bathroom is or why the kettle’s in the laundry. It hurts, seeing her fade.

At first, I just helped around the house. Then came the forgotten bills, the burnt meals, the night she wandered barefoot. That’s when I stepped fully into the role: full-time carer, part-time everything else.

It’s exhausting, beautiful, lonely, and sometimes even joyful. She’ll sing along to Elvis, call me “pumpkin,” or remember her secret scone ingredient—lemon zest. Those moments sparkle.

I miss who she was, but I see glimmers of her still. And in caring for her, I’m simply returning the love she once gave so freely.

It’s not always easy. But every cup of tea we share is a quiet victory, a reminder that love, even faded by time, still has flavour.

By Margaret