I knew something was wrong when she almost burnt our apartment for the third time in a row after forgetting that she had been cooking. My Maggie had never been forgetful but i knew the signs. Our grandmother had suffered from dementia before she died and it was inconceivable that my Maggie would suffer from the same thing. I ignored it. My mantra was “if I refuse to acknowledge it, then it doesn’t exist”.
Our dad kicked us out the day we both graduated from university. He couldn’t bear the shame of people finding out what was going on with his twin “Daughters of Jezebel” as he called us.
We didn’t care, we had each other. Neither of us had ever been interested in another person but us. It had always been Maggie for me. My Maggie. My Margaret.
My Maggie was smart so she knew what was going on too. She had to resign from her job because she kept forgetting things. I refused to have her checked into an institution. I would be with my Maggie until the very end, even on the days wen she didn’t know who I was or where she was, I would always be there to remind her about our love and how much I loved her. She was my world.
I didn’t realise that Maggie, not used to being taken care of, was sinking into depression as she started to rely on me more because she kept forgetting the simplest things, even how to drive a car. So it came as a shock to me that day when i got home and found her body swinging back and forth from the mango tree we loved to sit under in front of the apartment building. Before she could allow herself to become totally helpless, my Maggie ended it, Maggie ended me.