It was one of those nights that small towns whisper about—a Michigan blizzard so intense it swallowed the roads. In the midst of it, a stranger named Derek lifted my 91-year-old mother in his arms and carried her through the storm, saving her life when her own sons had failed to do so.

My mother, Ruth, is tiny—ninety pounds, four-foot-ten, living with dementia. Some days she’s clear and bright; others, she drifts into confusion. She has two sons: me, Michael, living in Florida, and my brother Tom, just twenty minutes away from her assisted living home in northern Michigan.

Eight years ago, I moved south. I told myself it was for work, for sunshine—but the truth was, I was exhausted. Exhausted by the late-night calls, the endless appointments, the slow heartbreak of watching someone fade. I convinced myself professional care would be better for her. That was the lie I told myself so I could sleep at night.

On January 17, the facility called Tom. Mom had fallen and needed X-rays. He said he was tied up in meetings. When they mentioned the $800 ambulance fee, he refused. Then he called me—to vent. I told him to handle it as he saw fit and hung up.

They arranged a budget-friendly transport van to take her to urgent care, only three miles away. The driver left her there, assuming someone would meet her.