Sunday.
I picked Mum and Dad up just after nine — grocery day, same as most Sundays now that neither of them drives anymore. Dad used to say he'd manage a few more years yet. Somewhere along the way "a few years" quietly turned into me doing the driving, and neither of us mentioning when that started.
Woolworths first, then whatever they fancy after.
Mum listed things off her fingers in the car: rice, dark soy, the good ginger, tissues. No lemons.
She picked up a net of them at the entrance anyway, turning it over like she was checking for bruises.
"We don't need those," Dad said, not looking up from the trolley. "There's a whole bag at home."
"This bag is fresh."
"The one at home is from Tuesday. You bought them Tuesday."
"I know what I bought." Her voice went up, sharp in a way it doesn't usually get in a supermarket aisle. "Don't tell me what I bought and didn't buy."
A woman near the oranges glanced over. Dad's jaw tightened, but he didn't say anything back. He just stood there a moment, hand resting on the trolley handle, looking older than he had five minutes earlier.
I've watched him do this more and more lately — brace, then let it go. Not because he's given up on being right. Because being right isn't worth what it costs anymore.
"It's fine," I said, mostly to fill the space. "We'll get them."
I took the net from her and dropped it in the trolley, on top of the rice.
She let go straightaway, like the whole thing had already left her. Moved on to the ginger without a backward glance.
Dad exhaled, long and quiet, and pushed the trolley forward.
We finished the rest of the list without incident — soy sauce, tissues, a tray of chicken thighs he turned over twice before choosing. Mum drifted behind us, picking things up and putting them back, unhurried in a way that used to be impatience and isn't anymore.
At the self-checkout, while Dad scanned the ginger, I quietly lifted the lemons back out and left them on the shelf by the bagging area.
Mum didn't notice. She was reading the receipt Dad hadn't asked for, holding it a little too close to her face.
We walked out with everything except the lemons, and nobody mentioned them again. Not because we were hiding anything. She genuinely didn't remember wanting them, not thirty minutes on, not by the time I'd pulled out of the car park.
I used to think forgetting would look bigger than this. A held breath, a moment everyone notices. It's mostly just quiet. A net of lemons, back on a shelf, and nobody but me carrying it out of the shop.
Brunch after, because none of us wanted to go straight home to more rice and soy sauce. The café two doors from the butcher on Forest Road, the one with the good coffee machine and paper napkins instead of the cloth ones Mum prefers.
Salmon for both of them — soft enough, Dad checked before ordering, no bones to worry about. Eggs Benedict for me, poached eggs on an English muffin, hollandaise going slightly cold before I'd got through half of it, yogurt on the side that Mum kept eyeing until I passed it over.
Somewhere between the salmon and the coffee, the talk turned to next week — my daughter's next papers, maths and chemistry back to back on the Wednesday.
"I'll do the morning drop," I said. "Might need one of you to grab her after, if the shop's busy."
Dad said he could get the bus down, no trouble. Mum said she'd have soup ready either way, something light, nothing that sits heavy before an exam.
"Not too much ginger," I said, and she almost smiled.
We went through it properly — who'd drive, who'd wait, what to cook the nights before. Ordinary logistics, the kind that fill a family up without anyone noticing.
I didn't bring up the lemons again. Mum ate her yogurt slowly, spoon by spoon, saying it was thicker than the one from the Korean supermarket, entirely unaware there was anything to forget.
I let her have that.