Wednesday.
Mum and Dad's, straight after the shop.
Dad's blood pressure again — hasn't settled since Sunday, going by Mum's texts through the week. Took his own reading before I'd even got my shoes off. Cuff on, quiet a second, then read the number out like a forecast. One-eighty-five over ninety-six.
Didn't like the sound of it either. Told him so.
He waved it off, the way he waves off most things that scare him. Said he'd just stay in a while longer — no mahjong downstairs, no walk to the shops. Hasn't left the building in four days.
Brought all three over with me today, straight out of the box from Saturday's order — still not properly unpacked at home before I grabbed the lot for the drive over. The Optimum Omega, the ReishiMax GLp®, and the Probio PCC.
Wrote the dosage straight on all three labels, marker still in my bag from tagging shelf prices. Same line each time — one capsule a day, morning, with food. Nothing more complicated than that.
Told him plainly — these aren't medicine. Not going to touch a number like one-eighty-five. Just something steady to keep up alongside whatever the doctor's already got him on, alongside actually calling the doctor, which I made him promise to do by Friday.
He nodded along, the way he nods along to most things I tell him, then asked if the bottles needed the fridge. Small relief, him asking a practical question instead of just sitting there worrying at the cuff.
Mum was already dressed by the door by the time Dad and I finished with the bottles. Sun hat already on, bag over her arm — hadn't been out all week either, her legs playing up, her own blood pressure the opposite problem to his, too low most mornings to trust her on the stairs alone.
Took her to the shopping centre near Dad's building, just the two of us. Coles first, no real list. Just wandering.
Picked up a bag of oranges near the entrance, then the lemons after. Told her, gently, we already had a full bowl of both at home from Monday's shop — no need to double up. She agreed straight away, put them back, said something about how she always forgets what's already sitting in that bowl.
Ten minutes later, near the checkout, she had the same bag of oranges in the trolley again. No memory at all of the conversation we'd just had over them, though she named them correctly the second she picked them up, quick as anything — knows exactly what an orange is, just not that we'd already talked about not needing one.
Didn't make anything of it. Just put them back a second time, quietly, and moved us on to the sushi place before she noticed I had.
Sushi for lunch, the little place near the food court. She used to make her own — used to, past tense, the kind you don't notice slipping into your own sentences until it's already sitting there. Whole Sundays, once, nori and rice laid out along the bench, telling me off for rolling it too tight.
Ordered a few plates, nothing too chewy. Her teeth aren't what they were either. The tuna went down fine, though — easier than the salmon, easier than anything with the skin still on. Ate three pieces of it, slow, looking pleased with herself over something that small.
Held onto that. Small thing to hold onto, but I did.
Drove her home after, shopping bags in the boot, Dad's bottles still lined up on his kitchen counter where I'd left them, labels facing out.
Quiet in the car most of the way. Not an uncomfortable quiet. Just the kind you get used to.
A year and a bit, that's all it's been. Feels like longer, some days. Feels like someone else's mother, other days — though I'd never say that out loud to anyone but this page. Not that she's changed in the ways I used to worry about. She still knows every fruit in that shop by name. Just not, some days, whether she's already picked it up once.
Made sure she sat down properly once I got her inside. Told her I'd call tomorrow, same as always.
Still thinking about the oranges, driving home.