Nothing has changed in this house; almost like it has not been nearly a decade since I lived here. The same fireplace, the same photographs smiling at me from the wall. I make my way to the kitchen; mum following closely behind. The hardest thing for mum is having lost some of the independence she has fought for throughout her life. Daily tasks now pose a challenge like I know she has never experienced before. Which says a lot considering my teenage years, and they were enough to make any mother tug at her hair and scream in frustration. It breaks my heart seeing mum stubbornly attempt seemingly simple tasks with so many tears of frustration. Should she let me, or should her condition worsen - as much as I know it's not what either of us would want - I will have no choice but to organise a carer to aid mum. I plug her slow cooker in and begin pulling various cans from the cupboard by her back door. Mum tuts as I pour the contents followed by the beef, gravy and sauces.

"You're just like your father" she scolds.

I try not to laugh. Mum has always been very particular with her cooking - measuring every ingredient until everything was 'perfect'. She never was that good a cook, not that me or dad ever had the heart to tell her.

"You like my stews, mother. Don't worry there's going to be more than enough for tomorrow"

With her arms folded over her chest and a frown on her face I can see how hard it is for mum to be mothered by me. I wish I could take this disease from her, make her happy, but that's something no amount of praying and wishing can do. I look up at the clock. Five thirty. Time to go. Mum serves her own dinner when she gets hungry, so I don't need to worry about that. She hates being in the house alone, often begging me to stay the night. It breaks my heart seeing her like this. No different to any other Saturday, she asks me to stay with her. Shaking my head, I kiss her cheek before leaving; pretending not to see my tears mirrored in her eyes.