Read to me from your book, Mom asks.

a snippet from my journey with Mom, which I will add to in a little bit

"Read to me from your book," Mom asks. I've been reading her passages from a memoir I'm working on. She likes to hear stories about our neighborhood, our family.

As I'm reading, a nurse comes into the room to change my mother's medication. Soon, Mom's eyes close. Her breathing deepens. She's fallen asleep. I close the notebook.

"What book is that?" the nurse whispers. "It’s good."

"Thank you," I say. "It’s mine. I wrote it."

"No," she says. "I mean what’s the title?"

"The End of Men."

"It’s good. Really good. Who wrote it?"

"I did," I say. "I wrote it."

"No, no. I mean, what’s the author’s name?"

"Amy Oscar," I tell her.

"Thanks," she says. She takes out a little notebook and writes down my name. "I have to get that book."