“You need more protein, to help with your healing,” my sweetheart said about the two dozen eggs she carried. I rode the tell-tale chair from my upstairs convalescence to boil the eggs. “My hard-boiled egg carton is in the cupboard by the freezer,” Mom called from her recliner at the far end of the family room, and I realized she thought the eggs were for her. Why not for her? So, I pulled open the drawer next to the freezer—there was no cupboard next to the freezer—but found no egg carton. “Not there!” she shouted. “In the cupboard!” I called back that there was no cupboard by the freezer, only the drawer. “In the cupboard!” she shouted again, her frequency rising. I opened the cupboard next to her kitchen desk—”Yes, that cupboard,” she yelled—but again I did not find the egg carton I had previously labeled “HB.” I held up my empty hands and shrugged my confused shoulders. By now Mom’s face was red and angry and overloaded with anxiety. What could I do—there was no egg carton in the cupboard, as she insisted. “It’s okay,” whispered Megan. “It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.” In search of a big boiling pan, I opened the cupboard under the stove—a long way from the freezer—and there was the missing carton. “It’s here, Mom,” I called, holding up the cardboard carton. “I guess I forgot where I put it,” she choked out in a mix of anxious embarrassment. I told her it was okay, that we had found it. Soon my 24 eggs were boiled, cooled, and stowed in their 24-egg carton. I asked Mom’s helper to boil some eggs to put in Mom’s recovered “HB” egg carton.