I work as a caregiver for an elderly man with Alzheimer’s. His name is Esteban. He’s 83, with hands as fragile as old paper and eyes that sometimes seem to forget the world, but today… not today.
When I walked in with my baby in my arms, Esteban looked at me with a tenderness I hadn’t seen in weeks.
“And who is this little angel?” he asked, leaning toward me with a smile that lit up his face.
“He’s my son, Don Esteban. I have to carry him today,” I said, trying to sound calmer than I felt.
“Can I…?” he asked, pointing to me with trembling hands.
I nodded and gently placed the baby in his arms. He held him with a confidence I hadn’t expected. As if he’d done this his whole life. As if words, or even days, had never slipped from his grasp.
“Hello, champion,” he whispered. “I’ve been waiting for you.” I sat down beside him in silence. My baby, who usually cries when he’s not with me, nestled into his arms and grabbed his finger with his tiny strength. He laughed.
“This little one has a delicate touch,” he told me. “He’ll cure me of my forgetfulness.”
The hours passed, and it was the quietest day I’d had since I started this job. As I prepared his lunch, Esteban hummed the songs his mother used to sing to him as a child. When he cried a little from hunger, he handed it to me with gentle seriousness.
“He’s hungry, my little one. And so are you. Shall we eat together?”
“Of course,” I replied, feeling a lump in my throat. “Like family.”
As I nursed him on the couch, he stroked his little head with his fingertips.
“I had one just like him… his name was Ricardo. He was small, like this one, and he looked at me like I was the whole world.”
