My stepmother, June, lived alone until her nineties, but over time, she fell into the depths of dementia. With no biological children of her own, I was the one left to guide her down the path toward the end of her life. Haunted by my father's last words to me to take care of his Junie, I couldn't walk away from this difficult task.

In 2008, the recession hit. I was laid off from my job and my husband Richard and I moved 150 miles away to start anew. June refused to come with us. I kept in touch with her via phone and occasional visits, and she outwardly seemed to be taking good care of herself. A local liquor store delivered her vodka, and a friend drove her to the store for cigarettes. All was well.

That was until her neighbor called to tell me she had fallen. June made her promise not to call me, but she did anyway. When I finally spoke with June, I walked on eggshells trying not to let on I knew what happened. She complained to me of being confused, and I offered to come help her straighten things out. She agreed.

When I arrived June's front door, it stood ajar. I sensed something terribly wrong. She yelled at me to go away, she wasn't finished. Finished with what I asked and her reply was "killing herself". My heart stopped. When I refused to help her, she demanded that I leave. Not knowing what to do, I wheeled my suitcase back down the hall and found a hotel room for the night.

Armed with her power of attorney I started the process of taking charge of her life. I knew she had to move, but I had no idea where to start. But that next day, June recited a Bible verse. I'd never heard her even mention God, and now, she quoted verses with ease. She had turned into a person I didn't know.

The fight between us involved a parent figure with dementia who one moment was kind and smart and the next instant, a bratty child I was not equipped to deal with. With no help from my own siblings or from June's niece and nephews whom I'd never met, each step I took for her caused me to question my sense of right and wrong.

I struggled to get June out of her condo and into assisted living. Once that was done, I had to clean out her apartment to get it ready for sale. Armed with a handwritten list June had given to her lawyer years ago, I went to work sending off her cherished figurines and knickknacks to others. The words next to my name simply said box of personal papers. The day the box finally revealed itself to me, I was afraid to look inside. What was it she wanted me to know? What secret was hiding inside?

Once safely home, I closed the door to my office, took a deep breath, and slowly slid the lid off the box. After a whiff of stale smoke, I peeked inside. The box was stuffed with sympathy cards and letters June received after my father's death 25 years earlier. As I read each letter, I walked down memory lane of my life and relationships with my parents and how June came into my life. I walked down the path to where we found ourselves today, in a place neither of us wanted to be but where we discovered a special love for each other.