I accepted money to pose as an elderly woman’s son because I was desperate to keep my own mother alive. But then the woman I was cheating on started holding my hand as if I were really hers, and after her death, the nursing home informed me that they had left one last request intended just for me.

The clock on the dashboard read 11:47 when I parked my delivery van on the sidewalk in front of my mother’s apartment building. The rain blurred the streetlights, turning them into long yellow stripes. I stayed there for a few seconds, doing mental calculations, subtracting recipes from the rent, coming to the same conclusion as always.

I took the shopping bag and the paper bag from the pharmacy, and then went up the three flights of stairs.

Mom opened the door before I could knock, like she always did.

“You shouldn’t be out so late, honey.”

“Mom, I’m fine. I brought you your blood pressure pills and that soup you like.”

He took my face in his hands. His palms were warm, with the same warmth I had known all my life.

“You look tired, Jeremy.”

“I’m fine, mom.”

It was not good.

The next morning, I took advantage of a gap between shifts to make a delivery to a cafeteria. That’s when a man sat in the front seat without asking permission.

He looked rich.

You’re Jeremy, right? A friend of mine told me about you. He said you could use some extra income.

“Who is your friend?”

“Does not matter. What matters is that I have a problem and I think you can solve it.”

I should have gotten up and gone. Instead, I took another sip of coffee.

“My mother is in a nursing home”, the man said. “Her name is Rosie. Has dementia. On her good days, she tells everyone who listens to her that her son never comes to see her”.

“So, go see her.”

For a brief moment, his gaze wandered to the window.

—I can’t see her like that —he responded—. I have work obligations. Family members ask me questions. Family friends. It’s becoming a problem.

He pushed a folded wad of bills to the middle of the table.

Five hundred a week. Weekend visits. Call her mom. Act like you’re Tim. That’s my name. You won’t notice the difference, Jeremy. She no longer knows who is in front of her.

I stared at the money.

“That’s not right, sir.”

“Being right doesn’t pay your mother’s bills.”

The phrase hit the mark.

“How did you know about my mother?”

“I asked around. Jeremy, you’re someone you know. A good guy. About the right age. It measures up.”

I should have refused. I was about to do it.

“Only on weekends?”, I asked instead.

“Only on weekends. If you want, bring her flowers. Sit there for an hour. Smile. Go away.”

My hand moved before my consciousness could stop it. I brought the money closer to me and felt its weight settle in my palm like a small, heavy stone.

“When do I start?”

Almost smiled. For a moment, he seemed a man relieved to be able to put his burden on another’s shoulders.

“Saturday. And Jeremy. Don’t get attached.”

I nodded, already aware that I had agreed to become someone I wasn’t.

The hallway of the nursing home smelled of disinfectant and withered roses. My hands were sweaty as I repeated the name Tim had repeated ad nauseam on the phone the night before.

Room 214. I knocked once, opened the door and walked in.

Rosie was sitting by the window with a thin blanket folded over her knees. He raised his head slowly, blinking at the intense afternoon light.

—Mom —I said, the word sounding strange on my tongue—. It’s me. Tim.

For a long time, he just looked at my face. Then his expression softened and he raised a trembling hand towards me.

—Here you are! —whisper.

I crossed the room and took his hands. I expected to feel smart and distant. Instead, shame rose to my throat.

—Sit down, sit down —Rosie said, tapping on the chair next to her—. Have you eaten? You look tired.

“I’m fine, mom.”

“Do you get enough sleep, Timmy? You always demand too much of yourself.”

No one had asked me those questions in years. Not even after my father left. Not even after my mother got sick.

I stayed there for an hour, almost always letting her talk. Rosie talked about a garden I had never entered and a dog I had never had, and I nodded as if those memories belonged to me.

When I got up to leave, he squeezed my hand tightly.

“Come back soon.”

“I will, mom.”

As I turned toward the door, I looked back and saw tears shining in her eyes. He quickly turned around and wiped them with the edge of his blanket.

On my second visit, I brought tulips. In the third, I brought a little box of candy chocolates that the nurse told me Rosie liked. On the fourth visit, I arrived on a Wednesday, although Tim had not paid for that day.

In the hallway I met Margaret, a delicate woman with piercing eyes and a cardigan too big for her complexion. He saw me pass in front of his door with flowers in my hand.

“You visit her a lot”, she said.

“She is my mother.”

Margaret tilted her head. “He is the sweetest person of all. You’re lucky.”