But...I’m not Mom.

She wheeled her father to the top of the hill where they were met with a bench under a tall sycamore tree. When she was younger, her father would throw ball with her whilst catching the sunset. Now, her father sat in a wheelchair, looking frail and thin to the bones, relying on a thick sweater to keep him warm in the middle of summer.

"Dad, do you remember this place?" She asked.

"How can I not," he replied softly, "it was the place I proposed to your mother." He smiled, recalling the fateful day he willingly got on his knees to make his high school sweatheart his forever.

She smiled too, revealing the crinkling in her eyes as she let out a breath of relief. She took a sit at the edge of the bench so that she could be near her father and proceeded to take out a photo album. Dr. Fayward advised jogging father's memory a few times a day to help slow the progression of his deteriorating memory.

"Shall we take a jog down memory lane?" She asked.

"With you, my darling, of course." She watched in fascination as she observed her father taking in her baby pictures and running his fingers over her face. "You were so beautiful even as a baby." As the pictures evolved chronicologically, her father's expression began to change and his eyes began to reveal a tinge of confusion. "Molly, I didn't know you played soccer?"

That's because her mother didn't, but she did. On normal circumstances, she would have been flattered to look like her mom, but in moments like these, her insides desparately pleaded with her father, please don't forget me.