There are some kinds of love that don’t ask to be explained.

They just… remain.

My father passed away in 2021.

And not long after that, my mother was officially diagnosed with dementia—
though if we’re being honest, the signs were already there even before we lost him.

Time has moved forward since then.
In all the ways it’s supposed to.

And yet, in some quiet corner of my mother’s world…
something has stayed the same.

Recently, my eldest sister shared something with us.

Mom said she still sees Dad.
That she talks to him.

As naturally as if nothing had changed.

She said he asks her if she gets lonely or bored.

And she tells him no—
that she still does the things she’s supposed to do.

And then, she said, he responds gently…
that it’s a good thing.

There’s something about that exchange that lingers.

Not in a way that feels confusing,
but in a way that feels… almost sacred.

Because if you knew their love—
the kind they had for each other—
it wouldn’t feel strange at all.

It would feel like something that simply refused to disappear.

My father had a quiet way of loving my mother.

He made sure she knew—
not just in words, but in the things he did every day—
that she was his world.

You could see it in how he cared for her,
in the way he paid attention,
in the small, steady acts that never asked to be noticed.

And my mother, in her own gentle way,
held that love just as deeply.

It wasn’t loud.
It didn’t need to be.

It was the kind of love that lived in everyday things.

And maybe that’s why…
even now, it hasn’t really left.

Not entirely.

There is so much about dementia that takes.

Memories, names, moments that once felt anchored.

And yet, somehow…
not everything is lost.

Some things seem to remain untouched.

Like love that has been lived, over and over again,
in ways too deep to be undone.

I don’t know what to call what my mother is experiencing.

Maybe it doesn’t need a name.

Maybe it’s simply this:

That love, when it is real and deeply rooted,
doesn’t always follow the rules we understand.

Because even now, in her world,
my father is still there.

Still asking.
Still caring.
Still, in his own quiet way… looking after her.

And maybe there’s something comforting in that.

Not everything has to make sense
for it to be meaningful.

Some loves don’t leave.
They just learn how to stay… differently.

Thank you, Dy,

for loving Mang the way you did—

so fully, so quietly, so certain.

For showing us that this kind of love is real.

And for still finding ways to look after Mang,

even now.

All my love,