I had Mom over for dinner last night. It's not a big deal, I know, but I spent all day making her favorite — boeuf bourguignon, the recipe she used to rave about from that fancy French place downtown, the one we could never afford but she’d always get the ingredients for and try to recreate. Mine actually turned out pretty good, I think. The beef was tender, the sauce was rich, everything just kinda… worked. It felt like I was back in culinary school, all those hours on my feet, getting yelled at, trying to make something perfect. I wanted to show her I still got it, you know? That all those years weren't a waste, even if I'm still busting my ass in a kitchen that's not my own, making just enough to cover rent and the utility bill. She took a bite, chewed it slow, and then she looked up at me, kinda squinty over her glasses, and said, "This is wonderful, darling. Are you the new cook at the bistro?" And that was it. Just… that. Not "This reminds me of when..." or "You always were good at this." Just a practical question, like she was reviewing a menu. I mean, my mother, who used to write food reviews, who literally taught me how to hold a knife, who always told me I had a "palate." It's stupid, I know. It's just a dumb comment. But it hit me, right in the chest, like a punch that didn't even leave a bruise. I just nodded and mumbled something about trying a new technique. It’s just… it doesn't even sting anymore, not really. It should. I *feel* like it should. Like, if this had happened ten years ago, I would have thrown a fit, or cried in the pantry. But last night, I just cleaned up the plates, put the leftovers away, and then watched some terrible reality TV until I was tired enough to sleep. It's weird how things that used to gut you just kinda… flatten out. Like a road kill that’s been there so long it’s part of the asphalt. Just another thing to drive over.