Fight, I would tell myself. Fight for your right to be a family member and not the caretaker. "What about me?" I would shout, scream, cry hysterically. I would demand attention any way I could until they listened, until they understood and stepped in and stepped up. I would have made my mother act like a parent instead of folding like wilted flowers in a vase; you know that horrid smell of dead flowers that have overstayed their welcome; a smell, a memory that never goes away.