It’s been seven years since the washcloth incident, but my regret is still fresh. My mother moved in with us—my husband, son, and me—when her Parkinson’s disease had made it impossible for her to live alone. We wanted her to stay with us as long as possible, so we managed to juggle our schedules with the needs of an aging parent, and when her health went downhill we were able to pay for help, thanks to the sale of her house. My mother knew who we were until her final night, and there was some comfort in that thought. But I, on the other hand, have not found comfort. I can’t forget that washcloth.