You know when you’re talking, just on autopilot, right? Like, I was in front of thirty kids – teaching, you know? History. My thing. Always been my thing. And it was about the Cold War, something really simple, a date. I've said it a million times. Written it a million times. And it just wasn’t there. (Like, GONE gone.) I just… stopped. Mid-sentence. My mouth was open. Felt like forever. And these kids, they just stare at you. My oldest, she says it's normal. "Mom, you're 65, it happens." But she says it like she’s talking to a child, you know? And then you think about your own mom, how she was. My parents, they came here with nothing, worked so hard. Never forgot anything. Not a single memory. And I’m standing there, feeling like a fool. A fraud, almost. (Like, what am I doing teaching history if I can’t remember history?) It’s not just the date either. Sometimes I forget why I went into a room. Or what I was just about to say. Just a blank. And you don't want to tell anyone. Especially not my family back home. They'd say I'm getting old. Or worse, say it's because I'm stressing too much about the kids here, about the grandkids. (Like everything bad is always from here.) What if it gets worse? What if one day I forget how to get home? Or forget who my husband is? You just stand there, in front of all these bright young faces, and you feel this… cold. Like a door just shut inside your head and you can’t get it open. And you just smile, act like nothing happened, but inside it's screaming.