Food had always been her love language.
She believed sadness could be cured with hot parathas and sweet tea.
But one evening, she stared at her plate like it was a puzzle.
"What is this?" she asked.
"Rice," I said softly. "You made it."
She shook her head.
"I don't know how."
I sat beside her.
"Take one bite," I encouraged.
She tried.
But halfway through, she forgot what she was doing.
The spoon hovered mid-air.
Her eyes drifted somewhere far away.
"Why are we sitting here?" she asked.
My chest tightened.
"Because we're having dinner."
"With who?"
"With me."
She looked confused.
"Who are you?"
The question was no longer sharp.
It was tired.
Like she genuinely wanted to understand.
I put the spoon down and fed her slowly, like she once fed me when I was too young to hold it myself.
Tiny bites.
Patience.
Gentle reminders.
She chewed mechanically.
And I felt the world reverse.
The roles had completely changed.
I wasn't just her daughter anymore.
I was her caretaker.
Her memory keeper.
Her anchor.
Later that night, I cried alone in the kitchen, leaning against the fridge so she wouldn't hear me.
Because I missed something simple.
I missed my mother feeding me.