I have an update on the Golden Bachelorette. 

No, not the reality show. 

I’m talking about Willie. 

Who — yes, you’re right. Willie is definitely her own reality show. 

“I give you a lot of credit,” a person involved in Willie’s care told me recently. “You have your hands full.” 

You’d be surprised at how few people say that to me. 

You may recall Willie has what she calls a kinda-sorta boyfriend. 

I don’t know what that means. 

My ignorance is bliss. 

One night, Willie was feeling a little lonely in her new digs.  

She called me, asking if I could come over. 

When I got to Willie’s place — with ice cream sandwiches, I might add — she asked if I’d call her kinda-sorta boyfriend, ask him to spend the night with her. 

Listen. I love being Willie’s Tinder as much as the next girl. 

Except, no. No I don’t. 

Willie didn’t clock my reticence because, well, she doesn’t clock most of my emotions. 

Willie went on to explain she and her kinda-sorta boyfriend occasionally have sleepovers.  

Wait! Don’t go. 

If I had to listen to this, you do, too. 

I’m sure you’re wondering what I was thinking with Willie sitting there, telling me she has sleepovers with a man not my father. 

So many things. 

One was that I never wanted to know the intimate details of my parents’ relationship. So hearing the details of this intimacy was orders of magnitude worse. 

And if you’ve been with me for a long time, you probably know where I was conceived because Willie told me where I was conceived. 

And, you know, how. 

And that was before the dementia.  

And I, unfortunately, blurted it out to a writer I admire and had the good fortune to meet because much as I try, sometimes this apple doesn’t fall far from the loquacious tree that made her. 

In North Carolina. 

Yuck. 

What else was I thinking when Willie told me she and her kinda-sorta boyfriend have sleepovers? 

I was thinking, how long has this been going on? Did my sister ever talk to them about protection? Can I fake my death and get off this ride? 

Also, a lot of jokes.  

You know how freight trains are really long? And if you get stuck at a railroad crossing with one, you just sit there and watch each train car go by, one after another, sometimes sixty or seventy of them, and you can’t do anything but sit there and watch?  

That’s what the jokes were like. 

Because when your mom is hurting, and just wants her kinda-sorta boyfriend, you can’t say the jokes out loud. 

That’s what a dark bar, a few drinks, and your husband are for. 

So I was fairly paralyzed.  

Which didn’t matter because Willie wasn’t done talking. 

Willie was explaining that when she and her kinda-sorta boyfriend have a sleepover, one of them takes the bed, the other takes the recliner. 

Hey, if the recliner’s a-rockin’, don’t come a-knockin’, am I right? 

No! Stop! I told you. No jokes! 

I would have loved to fix this for Willie. But the rules at the Temple of Doom forbid crossover episodes. 

That is, residents of the independent living building can’t crash at the assisted living building. And vice versa. 

So Willie has to make do with her kinda-sorta boyfriend coming to her place for one meal a day. 

Which he pays to do. 

I mean, in more ways than just having to deal with Willie. 

For residents of the independent living building at the Temple of Doom, meals from the assisted living building are available for a fee. 

So Willie’s boyfriend pays, out of pocket, to eat with her once daily. 

That’s really touching. In the storm of Willie’s illness, this kindness — and so many others — stand out like sunshine on the horizon. 

A few weeks ago, I took Willie out to get her hair cut and colored. I made sure she had the works — waxed brows, full foil highlights, you name it. 

“You know she has a boyfriend,” Willie’s stylist hissed at me. “I don’t like that.” 

Willie’s stylist adored Indy.  

So did I. 

So I get it. 

A week later, I took her for a manicure. I helped her pick a spring color — a bright pink I hoped would carry her to warmer temperatures. 

“I feel so nice,” Willie said on the ride home. “I hope someone comes to visit today. I want them to see how nice I look.” 

Oh, man. Well now that she went and said that, I had to play Tinder for her. 
 
I offered to call her kinda-sorta boyfriend, see if he was available for dinner. 

“Oh, no,’ Willie said. “Don’t do that. We don’t have that kind of relationship.” 

Um, what kind of relationship do they have? 

I didn’t ask.  

You’re not asking, either. 

But go ahead. 

Let the jokes fly.