She just stood there, staring. Occasionally she would take a few steps and then stop. She would then pick up an object, look at it as if seeing for the first time, and then put it back. When she encountered pictures, she would stare at them like she was trying to remember who was in them. She also muttered to herself. Nothing intelligible, but muttering none the less.
"This is a lovely home. Is it yours?" she finally asked.
I stared at her, holding back tears. "No, Mom. It's yours. This is your house."
"Oh." she replied, and then looked at me with a strange expression. "Why did you call me 'Mom'?"
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