It is summer, and I am on a family holiday in Portugal.

This time I visit my great-aunt, who has lived in a care home for some time. The home lies about 120 km from Lisbon, outside the small town of Caldas da Rainha.

The sun burns down on the fields. Country roads shimmer with heat. Villages appear and disappear between fruit trees and wide vineyards. The journey feels long — a trip into the unknown.

My great-aunt means a lot to me. I have not seen her in a very long time. Years ago, I once received a letter from her in Germany, in which she spoke of her loneliness.

When I arrive, I am shocked by her physical decline.

She was once, in my eyes, the most beautiful woman — funny, lively, loved by everyone in the family. Now she sits in a deep, worn leather armchair. Her thin legs are cramped and bent. She fidgets restlessly with her feet and shoes.

I have been told she has become difficult and aggressive. She no longer recognizes anyone. She does not understand what is happening around her.

When she notices me — a stranger in her surroundings — she reacts with agitation and anger. She gets up and walks away.

The care home is relatively new. Hallways lead to doors opening into a secured garden. Residents can move between house and garden freely. There are ramps, hardly any stairs. Heavy wooden furniture tries to soften the cool darkness of the corridors, where footsteps echo off the walls.

She walks confidently, without speaking. She seems confused, bitter, closed.

I stay anyway.

I wait in the dining room, chat a little with other residents. After a while, she returns. Again, she appears angry. She walks toward me as if she wants to push me away.

I wish she were happy to see me.

I don’t know what to do.

This time, when she leaves again, I follow her.

She goes to her room. On a chest of drawers stand a few scattered objects and old photographs in makeshift frames. She picks them up one by one, opens drawers, fidgets with her belongings. There is almost nothing inside.

She takes nothing out.

It feels as if she wants to say:

“Look. Everything is gone.
But I have what I need.
My photos. My things.
You see — I am taken care of.
Now go.
I don’t want you to see me like this.”

We leave the room. She walks toward the main entrance and accompanies me to the door.

I leave.

On the drive back, I stop the car.

Remorse overwhelms me.

I realize how voyeuristic my visit was. I wanted to see her once more — but had not cared for her for years, caught up in my life in Germany. Life is fast. Life is full.

Who knows how long she suffered from loneliness before falling into this condition?

Guilt torments me.

The visit was so short.

“This can’t be all.”

Inside me, something rebels:

“I want to go back.
I want to tell her what’s in my heart.
I love her.”

I turn around.

When I return, it is lunchtime.

Everyone is seated at a set table. I am struck by the dignity of Portuguese food culture, even in dementia care: tablecloths, cloth napkins, knives and forks. Many residents struggle, yet somehow it works. Fresh, home-cooked food. Appetite. Presence.

The caregiver points to my great-aunt, who sits again in the armchair.

“She can’t eat at the table anymore. We’ll feed her later. But you can sit at her place if you like.”

I sit down.

Potatoes steam on the table. Green beans. Olive oil. Salt. A large plate of cooked fish.

During the meal, people ask me who I am and what I do in Germany. I answer honestly: I work with people with dementia in care homes. I draw portraits. I travel with this work.

My great-aunt seems uninvolved. Perhaps she does not even see me.

I am already at dessert when suddenly she is sitting right next to me.

I turn to her.

“You know,” I say — without protecting her from her illness —
“in Germany I work with people with dementia. You don’t need to be ashamed in front of me. I specialize in working with Alzheimer’s. I think I made a mistake earlier. I came back to greet you once more. And I believe I can still learn something from you — because I have always loved you so much.”

She does not reply.

But she is present.

After a glance from the caregiver, I take her prepared plate.

“If you like, I can help you eat now.”

I had been warned: she might slap the plate out of my hand.

I move slowly.

“I always work with elderly people,” I say gently. “I draw them. Maybe you can show me in some way that you understand me.”

I feed her.

I speak honestly — about my shame, my absence, my love. About my work, my search for answers, my longing. I tell her about strangers in Germany, about my life.

Whether she understands my words, I do not know.

But she softens.

She listens to my voice.

Eventually, I ask if I may draw her.

She allows it.

We share a long space of nonverbal dialogue. She no longer walks away. She stays. She lets herself be seen. She tries to express herself — without words.

At some point, she leans forward and feels her feet — and then mine.

She takes off my shoes.

I let it happen.

She takes off her own shoes, rubs her feet, then slips into my sandals and looks at me questioningly.

“You can keep them,” I say.
“I’m giving them to you.”

She stands up and walks away.

I could never have persuaded this strong, broken woman to anything.

She became present only once I had looked honestly at myself — and admitted my blindness.

I did not need the right method.

I needed truth.

Love, in dementia care, is not gentle explanation.

It is unvarnished honesty.

And sometimes, that is what finally opens the door.

— Claudia Wolfe
Sharing lived stories of creativity, care, and connection beyond words.