Hospitals have a smell you never forget.
Antiseptic. Fear. Waiting.
I sat beside her in the neurologist's office as she hummed a lullaby under her breath — the same lullaby she used to sing when I had nightmares.
The doctor adjusted his glasses.
"It's early-onset Alzheimer's."
The words fell gently.
But they destroyed everything loudly.
"She's still functioning well," he continued. "But memory loss will increase. Slowly at first."
I felt like someone had pulled the future away from me.
"How long?" I whispered.
He didn't answer directly.
There is no calendar for forgetting.
On the way home, Ma looked out the car window.
"Why were we at the hospital?" she asked.
I gripped the steering wheel.
"For a regular check-up."
She nodded.
Then she smiled at me.
The same warm, soft smile that had fixed every broken piece of my childhood.
And I realized something unbearable:
One day, she would look at me like I was nothing.
And she wouldn't even know she had lost something.