By Anne Miller

Mommy, Did You Love Me? Caring for a Difficult Parent Through Dementia

After 35 years in geriatric care, I thought I was prepared for dementia. Then I became my own mother's caregiver.

A few weeks before my mother died, I found her quietly crying in bed.

By then she was bedridden, and dementia had taken much of her ability to communicate. I asked whether she was in pain. She said no.

"What's wrong?"

"Heaven," she said.

I asked if she was thinking about my sister, who had died years earlier. She said no. Then she told me she

was scared to die.

I told her dying could be scary, but she wasn't alone. I was there.

"I was a bad mom," she said.

"Is that why you're afraid to die?" I asked. She nodded.

I told her God forgives everyone, that her children were okay, and that none of us hated her.

It wasn't an apology. My mother had never apologized for how she treated us. She was frightened about what would happen after death, and I wasn't going to leave her alone with that fear.

Caring for my own mother was different from caring for anyone else.

Growing up, I never felt good enough. Mom raised four children with little money. I know that wasn't easy.

But she also told us that without children she'd be successful and traveling the world. Mornings could begin with screaming and name-calling. Sometimes she hit us.

When I was about 38, I overheard Mom telling a friend, "None of my kids have amounted to much but at least they're not thieves."

I can still hear those words.

I'd built a life and a career I was proud of. Yet she could still make me feel like that little girl who wasn't good enough.

I'm not sharing this to vilify her. But I can't explain caring for Mom without explaining what it was like to be her daughter.

Then she needed me.

In 2022, a manager at a seniors' residence called. I'd had no contact with Mom for years and believed she was living in the Dominican Republic. Her husband had died, she was back in Canada, and she needed help.

My first thought was that I didn't want to get involved. One of my brothers wasn't able to take this on. My younger brother and I went to see her.

Dementia was obvious. After a crisis and hospitalization, her residence couldn't take her back. The hospital proposed long-term care three hours away. Mom could afford private care. I knew I wouldn't make that drive every week, and I couldn't accept her going through dementia largely alone.

She moved into the personal care home I managed.

Understanding dementia didn't make me immune to the hurt.

Mom began coming into my office with accusations about me. At first, I forgot my training and defended myself. She would leave satisfied she'd put me in my place. I'd be left upset.

Eventually something clicked. I stopped answering as her daughter and started responding as a nurse. I listened, validated her feelings, and reassured her. She would calm down and leave.

My feelings were still hurt. When I tell families not to argue with someone living with dementia, I know how much easier that advice is to give than to follow.

Mom repeated her accusations to my staff. They understood dementia and listened respectfully. When an employee reprimanded Mom for speaking badly about me, I thanked her for defending me but reminded her that Mom deserved the same treatment as any resident. I felt embarrassed sometimes, but grateful for my team.

After one of those encounters, I'd shut my office door, have a little cry, and remind myself I was a good person and a good nurse. Then I'd go back to work. At home, my husband listened without trying to fix things. Sometimes he made me laugh.

I was also raising my granddaughter. I remember coming home at five one evening, exhausted from work and from dealing with Mom. My granddaughter had a Halloween dance at six. All I wanted was to stay home, but there was no one else to take her, so off we went. Thankfully, she only wanted to stay an hour.

I knew I was burning out, but even finding a way to deal with it felt like too much effort. I stopped seeing friends. Eventually, I didn’t even want to be around people.

As Mom's power of attorney, I managed her care and helped sell her house to fund her stay. I considered hiring someone to read to her or take her for walks, things I found emotionally difficult, but I didn't know how long her savings needed to last.

Still, there were holidays when I forced myself to visit. I knew she might have no family visitor otherwise. I'd try to redirect her complaints. When that didn't work, I'd leave. Mostly I felt relieved, and a little sad that nothing had changed.

I struggled just to sit with her. Other daughters might reminisce about happy childhoods. I didn't have those memories to draw on. I arranged an ocean-view projection in her room and an audiobook of Outlander, which she loved. I encouraged the one friend who visited regularly.

Sometimes Mom didn't recognize me. Those were the visits I almost hoped for: she was kind to me when she thought I was a stranger. It hurt to realize how easily she could offer someone else the warmth I'd wanted all my life.

I wanted her to love me. I wanted to be able to love her. And perhaps I still hoped we'd find a relationship we'd never had.

We didn't.

If you are a daughter caring for a parent who hurt you, this is what I want you to know: you can make sure your parent receives good care without personally providing every moment of it. Boundaries are not abandonment.

Near the end, I was sad and exhausted. I even thought about how an inheritance might help my family. I also felt relief that I wouldn't have to force myself through another painful visit. Those thoughts are uncomfortable to admit, but they're true.

I'm not angry with Mom. I don't hate her. I'm not even sure I loved her in the way people expect a daughter to love her mother.

'

Still, I cry when I think about her dying.

On March 10, 2026, I sat beside her and held her hand. I made sure her pain was controlled. I told her it was okay to go to heaven.

She took her last breath while I was there.

There was no last-minute reconciliation. I stayed because I believe no one should die alone. As a nurse, I’ve sat with residents in their final hours. Like everyone, she deserved dignity and a peaceful death, no matter what kind of mother she’d been.

Yes, she's free of pain and suffering, but so am I.

Somewhere inside me, I'm still that little girl who wants her mommy.

I just never found her.

About the Contributor

Anne Miller is a mother, a grandmother, and a nurse who has spent more than 35 years caring for older adults. She began as a care aide, became a Licensed Practical Nurse, and today is Executive Director of a personal care home. Dementia became personal for her when she cared for her own mother through the disease. She is the founder of Anne Miller Caregiver Tools.

annemillercaregivertools.com