The first time my mother forgot my name, it was raining.
I remember because the window was slightly open and the smell of wet soil drifted into the living room. She was sitting on the old beige sofa, folding laundry — the same way she had done every Sunday for years.
I walked in holding two cups of tea.
"Ma," I smiled. "Less sugar, just how you like it."
She looked up at me.
And hesitated.
Not long. Just a second too long.
Her eyes searched my face like I was a stranger trying to resemble someone she once knew.
"That's very kind of you…" she said softly.
But she didn't say my name.
I laughed it off.
"You forgot my name, didn't you?"
She frowned slightly, embarrassed.
"Of course not… it's just on the tip of my tongue."
I waited.
She didn't say it.
My name — Aarohi — had been the first word she taught me to spell. She used to write it in pink chalk on the courtyard floor when I was five.
That afternoon, she couldn't remember it.
We didn't say anything more about it.
But something inside me cracked quietly.