The coffee was cold again. I’d left it on the counter three times this week, only to find it untouched, congealed under a skin of sadness. Today, Mom stared at me like I was a stranger wearing her son’s face.\n\n‘Do I know you?’ she asked, clutching her floral apron.\n\nMy chest cracked open. ‘It’s me, Mom. Jamie.’\n\nShe blinked slowly, then smiled—not because she recognized me, but because she wanted to make me feel better. That broke me more than the forgetting.\n\nLater, cleaning out the pantry, I found a shoebox labeled ‘For Jamie When I’m Gone.’ Inside: cassette tapes, each with a date and a single word—‘Birthday,’ ‘Graduation,’ ‘Forgiveness.’\n\nMy hands shook pressing play on the first one. Her voice, clear and strong: ‘If you’re hearing this, I’ve started to slip. But listen closely—I’ve loved you every second, even when I can’t remember your name.’\n\nNow I sit in the dark, tape recorder in hand, wondering: do I play the next one alone, call my sister and risk another fight, or take all these tapes to the memory clinic and see if they can restore what’s been lost?