Near the end of her life, my grandmother started confusing me with my mother. The first few times I corrected her. She would become embarrassed and upset.
Eventually I stopped. If she called me by my mother's name, I answered. Sometimes she told me stories as if I had been present decades before I was born. I listened. My family thought it was too painful and left the room. For me, those conversations became a strange gift. I got to meet pieces of her past by temporarily becoming someone else.