I showed up at my mom’s nursing home, like I did every weekend, carrying her favorite banana bread and a soft cardigan she always liked. But when I reached the front desk, the receptionist gave me a puzzled look. “She was discharged last week,” she said. I froze. “What do you mean? I didn’t authorize that.”

Denise, the receptionist, double-checked the records. According to their files, Mom had been signed out by her daughter. But the name listed wasn’t mine it was Lauren.

Lauren. My estranged sister. The one who had disappeared over a decade ago after a bitter falling out with our mother. The same sister who ignored all messages, including the one I sent when Mom’s dementia first began to show.

Now, somehow, she had taken our mother without a word to me and disappeared again. I tried everything to track her down. Her old phone was disconnected. Her social media accounts hadn’t been active in years. There she was Lauren smiling in a photo, holding Mom’s fragile hand. The caption read: “Caring for the woman who gave me life.