“She was just standing there,” my dad told my sister, by way of explanation, “and she fell.” My mom managed a small smile, with her big swollen lip, like it was her fault, my sister told me. The three of them were living in a small apartment in Tokyo at the time. This was five years ago, in 2011, the year my mom started falling down.

My Filipina mother, Betty, age 72 and all of 88 pounds at the time, had raised five children in Japan and was endlessly active, hopping on her bicycle to do errands or deliver delicious homemade food to my high school, or hurrying to the subway to spend time with close friends. It was unlike her to lose control of anything, especially her balance.

So naturally we were confused when she had a very bad fall later that year, during a wedding in Las Vegas. And, two years later, when she banged her head on a dresser drawer while on vacation in Atlantic City, requiring a visit to an emergency room to get stitches.

She insisted she was fine, and we chalked it up to inner-ear problems, which she’d had for years. But soon things escalated and we made it a point to keep a watchful eye over our mother, wondering when she might fall again, wondering if one of us would be there to catch her when she did.