“I know this is hard for you,” I said calmly, picking it up and putting it in front of her again. “I get it. But I’m not going to hurt you. You don’t have to take my candy if you don’t want to.” Then she ate it.

My mother smiled at my wife, who is strong, smart and willful, traits my mother respected. She stared at Kathy so intently that it spooked her. I guessed that Kathy looked the way my mother did 77 years earlier. When we went to leave, I asked my mother if I could hug her. She nodded, and I started to. But then she drew back and wouldn’t budge. Kathy whispered, “She needs you to move further away from her first, Dad.” After I did, my mother just shuffled by.

My mother had cut off all my siblings over the years, and my brothers and sister were shocked that I even went to see her, especially because she always hated me the most — even before the divorce trial. I was the smallest, weak and sick as an infant. She once screamed that she’d wanted to let me die, like an injured animal. Did I forgive her? Absolutely not. Would I protect her now, if she needed anything? Yes. On the ride home, my daughter said what my own mother couldn’t: “You are a good son.”

A month later I returned with a photograph of my mother as a beautiful 24-year-old actress; it depicted her cameo in a movie called “Bedlam,” with Boris Karloff. She appeared fascinated by her old image and was pleased when I showed the staff who she used to be. They knew in advance I was coming, so they spruced her up. Her cheeks looked pinker, her gray hair puffy. We were both more comfortable this time. She never pulled away, frowned or shook her head no. I felt relieved and lighter. Then I wondered if it was that she just liked the attention. When I pointed to a cellphone picture of Kathy, whom she met the last trip, she had no idea who Kathy was. Perhaps my mother was acting warmly to me only because she had no idea who I was.