My father and I live in the same house, sometimes separated by only a wall, and increasingly I have the strangest awareness that we are occupying entirely different worlds. While he tries to determine whether 2:00 is close enough to 3:30 to simply go to bed, I might be on the treadmill, lifting weights, or writing my thesis. Dementia is heartbreaking and exhausting—but nobody told me how completely absurd it could be.

I used to think boundaries meant choosing between his needs and mine. This morning, I finished my sentence, helped my dad with an upside-down wrist brace, pointed him toward the chandelier, and discovered something quieter: I can love him without leaving myself.

I wanted to go. It was such a simple desire. My son could take care of himself. My father couldn’t. So I didn’t choose according to what I wanted. I chose according to who needed me. And then the dream put my father on a plane I couldn’t board.