I flew back home for a week — first time in like, a year? maybe more. Mom’s getting… fuzzy. The doc says it’s “mild cognitive impairment” but honestly, it feels less mild, more a full-on blur sometimes. Like trying to watch an old VHS tape when the tracking's messed up. She’s still *her* in there, mostly, but then these little moments hit, like tiny speed bumps on a perfectly smooth road. Decided to cook her favorite meal. Something she used to make all the time when I was a kid – coq au vin. Not the fancy, cheffy version, just… hers. Comfort food. Spent hours on it, braising the chicken in red wine, getting the mushrooms just right, Pearl onions sweating slow. My hands just… knew what to do, muscle memory I guess, from all those years in kitchens. This dish, it's practically in my DNA. I remember her teaching me, standing on a stool next to her, stirring the roux. She was a food writer back in the day, you know? Knew her stuff. Every restaurant critic in town knew her name. So, I bring it to the table, steaming hot, smells amazing. She takes a bite. Chews slow. Looks at me. And says, clear as day, “Oh, this is good. Are you the new cook?” Just like that. No malice, no joke… just a genuine question. Like I was a stranger. Like I was the hired help. And for a second, my heart just… stopped. Flatline. It should have HURT, right? Like a knife. Your own mother, forgetting you made her favorite dish, forgetting you’re even HER DAUGHTER. But it didn't. Not really. It was more like… a dull ache. The kind you get after a long shift, when your feet are throbbing but you’re too tired to care. I just laughed. A little. “Yeah, Mom, just me. Your personal chef.” And she smiled back, a sweet, vacant smile. Ate the whole thing. Said it was delicious. Now I'm back in my own apartment, three time zones away. Looking at plane tickets again. I keep telling myself I'll call her tomorrow. It's just… what's the point sometimes? It’s not like she’ll remember. And I'll just keep telling her I'm fine. She'll believe me. Always does. And that's the real gut punch, isn't it? The one that doesn't even feel like a punch anymore. Just… existence. *C'est la vie,* I guess. Whatever.