And this is the final chapter of my grandmother’s life. I hope you enjoyed part 1, part 2, part 3, and part 4 of this journey. Now, in this last stage, I want to believe that she finally found her freedom, and that—even if only for a short time—she was able to enjoy herself.

Let me start by recalling what I shared in part 4 about our move to the U.S. Those years were difficult for my mother in many ways: a new country, far from her family, not speaking the language, and raising two children while her husband (my father) worked nonstop to keep the family afloat.
And afloat he kept us.

We moved many times until we finally bought a house in Miami, where it seemed like everything was going well… But then everything changed. I moved to Los Angeles with a crazy boyfriend (you’ll read about that in my memoirs—I’m working on them), my brother left to study abroad, and my parents were left alone.
Like many couples, there comes a point when they no longer recognize each other, or love changes. I won’t go into details, but one day my mother called me while I was in Los Angeles and told me she was getting divorced and moving back to Madrid to live with her mother.

It was a shock for me, but I imagine it was even more so for her. She was deeply in love with my father, and for the rest of her life, she always thought of him.

It was also hard for me because, even though I lived abroad, I spoke with my mother every day and could see her every few months. But this changed everything. She returned to Madrid, to her childhood home, to live with my grandmother.

Back in Madrid, she was finally able to live the way she wanted. She reconnected with old friends, started working in a clothing shop, began painting, joined a museum club, went out at night, and enjoyed life… I think she even flirted, haha.
She lived free, without anyone telling her what to do, without having to take care of anyone… until my grandmother had a stroke and she had to care for her. Even so, I know she was happy (though not completely, because we were far apart).

We were separated for almost 20 years. I visited when I could, or she came to see me. We couldn’t talk every day because it was expensive back then. There were no video calls or WhatsApp. It was hard for me, and I imagine for her too, but at least she was surrounded by her people, in her hometown, held by her family.

I decided to return to Spain in 2005, partly because I wanted to be close to my mother again, for her to enjoy her grandchildren, and because I knew that one day I would have to take care of her… and I did.
When I moved back, my ex couldn’t adapt to Spain and we eventually divorced. I was left alone with my young children, and my mother was the one who helped me with everything.

In 2011, my mother traveled alone to the U.S. to visit my brother, my sister-in-law, and my nephews. While she was there, one day before returning to Madrid, my grandmother—at 99 years old—passed away.
I had to be the one to call her and tell her.
She returned that same day, and I believe that from that moment on, she felt guilty for not being there to say goodbye. Just as I was deeply attached to my mother, she was to hers, and she never got over that farewell.

From then on, my mother would often come to Alicante to help me with the kids, or I would visit her, and we spent time together. We truly enjoyed it: walking through El Retiro like when I was a child, going out for beers and tapas, to the theater, to the movies… we really had beautiful moments.

Until, little by little, I began to notice changes: she stopped eating well, lost her appetite, became clumsy. She would repeat things, forget what I had just said…
That’s when I took her to a neurologist and we received the terrible news.

I thought it would be a slow process, that she would fade gradually and that we would have time… but we didn’t.
From one day to the next, I had to bring her to Alicante because she could no longer live alone.

At first, she didn’t want to. She wanted to stay in her home and didn’t understand why she had to move. She got angry with me because she believed she was fine.
It broke my heart to take her out of her space, but with two teenagers, I couldn’t leave my home, and I had no other choice.

It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.
Especially because her apartment had an old rental contract, and we eventually had to give it up. Emptying that house—my grandparents’ home, the only place that truly felt like my childhood home—was devastating, especially since I had moved more than 20 times in my life (I’ll share that in my memoirs).

Watching an entire lifetime—all her belongings—being thrown away, given away, or stored… was heartbreaking.
I still have many things in my partner’s storage that I haven’t been able to touch.

And this is the final chapter of her life.
In “Caregiver Chronicles”, I share everything I lived through while taking care of her.