A Slice of Life ... but Whose?

In my old house, where my parents have lived now for over 30 years, I'm sitting at the kitchen table, writing on my latest draft. Across from me, my mother, looking little and old, tries to put together a jigsaw puzzle. I know she won't be able to complete it, and it's really too difficult for her, but she refuses all help. Plus it makes the time pass quicker.

Breaking in on my concentration, my mother asks, again, "So how's your brother Rex and -- oh, what was the middle brother's name?" (I'm her only child, but I don't say that. I don't want to upset her.) She then mentions the boarders living with us (we never had boarders; she must be thinking I'm someone else), and that she distinctly remembers the house I grew up in -- "Do you still live there?"

This time I answer her. Perhaps something will get through. "No, Mom, I haven't lived here for a long time now."

"Not here - the house you grew up in."

"Mom, this is where I grew up."

Her gaze is unwavering, almost staring. "But you don't remember your other brother's name?"

I only look at her. After a bit, she turns again to her puzzle, and I go back to my work.

But I can't see the page before me.