This time my mother got it all right. The year, the month, and the day. The president’s name. Where she’s staying. So she thinks she’s going home. When I stop by the rehab center, she tells me to make sure the heat’s turned up, the cable switched on again, fresh milk in the fridge. Her stricken hand stays flopped in her lap over the leg they’ve strapped to the footrest of her wheelchair, while her good hand flies through the air, planning her getaway from Green Acres Manor. Everyone here’s nice again. She’s ready to forgive the aide she’s sure swiped the Hershey bar from her dinner tray, the therapists who pushed her to do more steps behind the walker. For a few seconds she stares at me with those dark eyes that always kept me in line, that now say she misses my father. She knows he never would have let this happen.