The house smelled like burnt meatloaf when Charlotte opened the door, and she wished she would've stopped at the sandwich shop she passed on the way to her mother's house. "Mama?" She called as she toed off her boots and wiggled her toes in her damp socks. A nor'easter had dropped six inches of snow on Virginia, and the neighbor who normally plowed her mother's driveway and shoveled the paths hadn't had a moment to drop by yet.

"I'm in the kitchen!"

Charlotte's fingers froze over the buttons of her coat, and she rushed into the small kitchen. "Mama, what are you doing? You know-" she closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. "You can't be cooking by yourself. Here, come, sit down, and I'll finish up."

"Oh, hush," her mother said. "Look at you tracking snow in and spreading it all over the house like when you were little. Go on and get your coat off and hang it up. I'm amazed you didn't come stomping in here with your boots still covered."

"I've never 'stomped' anywhere." Charlotte shrugged off her pea coat and hung it over the back of a tall wooden dining chair with her scarf. "Where's Betsy?"

"I'm here. You know I wouldn't leave your mother alone for long. Dora, why is the floor all wet?" Betsy came around the corner and dropped a white plastic basket overflowing with laundry on top of the table.

"Charlotte brought the winter in with her," her mother sang from the stove.

Betsy quirked her lips and pulled a shirt from the top of the pile. She shook it out and spread it flat across the table, her wrinkled hands smoothing out the floral pattern before they tucked the edges in and folded Dora's shirt into a small square. She took a peek at Charlotte's mother, who was stirring a huge pot of water on the stove and humming under her breath. Satisfied that she was occupied, Betsy whispered to Charlotte, "It's lucky you came when you did."

"Has today been another bad day?"

"Quite the opposite, actually." Betsy finished folding a cream bath towel and set it aside before reaching for a pair of Dora's pants.

Charlotte pulled a sweater out, the ugly Christmas one she'd gotten her mom six years ago that had all the cats with Santa hats on it, and settled next to Betsy to fold. "Opposite enough that you're letting her cook?"

Besty snorted and then darted her eyes up to check her charge. "I pulled the stove out after I made dinner and unplugged it. Your Mama thinks she's cooking, and it makes her happy, but it's safe too."

Charlotte nibbled her cheek, and she could feel the guilt swimming in her belly. "Maybe we should tell her. How long has she been standing there waiting for that pot to boil?"

"It's your choice, but look at her. She's feeling in control for once. Why not let her have it?"

Charlotte did look at her mother then. Dora was softly singing and swaying as she stirred, her blue eyes bright and focused, and her wispy gray hair pulled into a neat chignon at the base of her neck. She periodically paused her stirring to massage her shoulder at the collarbone as if she were trying to smooth the wrinkles from her skin.

Her mother noted her stare and grinned. "Dinner will be ready soon. Hope you're hungry. I'm making your favorite." Dora's gaze shifted to Besty, and her brows knotted. "Charlotte, honey, your friends shouldn't be helping you with your chores." She turned to Betsy and added, "You sit down and make yourself at home. It's awful nice of you to help, but Charlotte needs to learn to handle her own responsibilities."

"I don't mind, Dora," Betsy said, scooping another shirt from the half-full basket. "Folding relaxes me, and we're nearly done now."

Dora pursed her lips but didn't say anything.

Betsy waited until the older woman was distracted again before turning to Charlotte. "It's been a good day, but we've had a few sort of," she teetered her head as she debated the word she wanted to use, "odd moments today. Not like her usual stuff."

"Doctor Portmand said we could expect her to deteriorate quickly." Charlotte scrunched the shirt she'd be folding in her fists. "I'm surprised she's doing as well as she is today. A few odd moments are worth it for a couple hours of her at least knowing my name."

"I agree, but these aren't like her usual ones." Besty shook her head as if clearing away something unpleasant. "She was completely lucid, except she wasn't. She kept talking about some woman who gave her a gift for you. I've not seen whatever this gift is, and, when I ask her about it, she fades out on me again."

Plucking at the sleeves of the shirt she'd been folding, Charlotte said, "Has anyone been to see her?"

Betsy paused and gave Charlotte a pitying smile, "Your sister hasn't visited. I expect she won't at all." Here she shook herself and focused on her task. "It's sad to say so, I know. Fear of pain keeps her away, and yet she'll suffer all the more for it. I can only hope she'll come to see her mother before the end." Betsy left off that she didn't think that would be the case. There was no sense in further paining Charlotte.

"Yes, where is Abby?" Dora interrupted. She twisted the knob to turn off the burner, oblivious to a lack of flame on the gas stove, and carried the pot of cold water to the sink where she drained it through a colander. "Standing over that stove for so long has given me a crick in my neck. I always hated how hot it is when you're cooking, but the results are well worth it." Her hand clutched the back of her neck as she rolled her head, her eyes closed as she stretched. "Honey, can you go and get your sister from the neighbor's house? She can see her friends again tomorrow."

"Mama-"

"Honestly, she's constantly over there anyway. It would be nice if she'd spend just a few minutes with her own family," her mother continued. "And- hmm, what was I doing again?"

"You were getting the meatloaf you made," Besty said and swooped around her to grab a white baking dish with delicate ivy vines painted around the edges from the counter beside the stove. "It's still warm. I'll take this, and you can grab the potatoes. No, the other dish there, the blue one."

Potatoes in hand, her mother turned to her daughter and said, "Honey, would you please set the table? Honestly, I have to remind you every time."

Dinner was, as usual, a confusing affair. Charlotte had to remind her mother or redirect her, no less than four times, when she continued to ask about the whereabouts of her younger sister. Once, she turned to her daughter and asked, "Who is this friend of yours? You haven't said."

"This is your companion, Mama. Her name is Betsy. She's been with you for ten years."

Her mother's mouth dropped open, "Oh." She glanced at Betsy and back to her daughter. "Are you sure? She's quite pretty, and she seems really nice," here her voice dropped to a whisper, "but she's not really my type. I was really fond of your father, you know."

This was a new response. Betsy coughed and thumped her chest before seizing her water glass and gulping down half of it. Charlotte's lips twitched, "No, Mama. She's an in-home living assistant."

"Living-assistant? Like for the elderly?" Dora forced her fork down so hard it screeched across the porcelain plate.

Charlotte debated briefly. This conversation was frequent with her mother and could go two ways. She desperately wanted to take the easier route but explained the truth of the matter to her mother. "You're forgetful, Mama." She softened the blow by leaving out her list of diagnoses. Knowing from experience that her mother would fight what she perceived to be an insult to her character, Charlotte quickly added, "Betsy has been with you for ten years, because ten years ago you almost burned the house down, with you in it, when you left a burner on and forgot about it. Most of the damage was repaired, but see there? Over the stove? The paint is a slightly different shade than the rest of the kitchen, and there's no-"

"There's no cabinet." Her mother's eyes were wide and glassy. "The cabinet is gone. I remember it was there because I hated having the spices above the stove. They were constantly falling every time I had to get something from behind the first row of jars. Oh god, what have I done? What's happened to me? Why can't I remember?" Her chair screeched against the linoleum as she thrust back from the table and fled the room.

"You want me to take it this time?" Besty's hand on mine was a balm against the pain blooming in my chest.

"I've got this, but thanks."

"I'll be in here if you, or she, needs me."

Charlotte squeezed Betsy's fingers. "Thank you for taking care of both of us."

Dora was pacing the full length of the room, between the unlit fireplace and the tv stand, before her daughter guided her into a cushy floral armchair at the window. "I just don't understand," she said.

"Let me help you through this," her daughter said, settling on her knees before her mother's chair. "I can give you any answers you need to know."

"Help?" Her mother suddenly looked thoughtful, her eyes narrowed under furrowed brows.

Charlotte tilted her head, "Mama?"

"That's what she said: 'help.'"

"That's what who said?"

"The woman, this morning, she came to me with a gift for you. She was beautiful." Her mother's gaze focused, and she seized Charlotte's hands between both of hers with an intensity that frightened her daughter. "She said I had to give you her gift when you came to visit me. That you would help people."

"Mama, what are you talking about? What woman? Betsy said you haven't had any visitors."

"She didn't come to see Betsy."

"There was no woman," Charlotte gently extracted her hands and wrapped them around her mother's warm cheeks. "I'm so sorry. I can't imagine how confusing all of this is for you." Her voice cracked a little. "It's just me and Betsy, Mama."

"She was here."

"I'm sorry-"

"See?" Her mother yanked free, diving her hand into the pocket of her dress, and yanking out a flash of silver that she displayed by pinching the two ends between her thumb and index fingers. The delicate silver chain in each hand trailed inward until it met sweeping antlers that looked as if they would flow across her collarbones. The intricate beams curled downward into a vee that cradled an enormous teardrop stone.

"It looks like a diamond," Charlotte said, her jaw plummeted in shock, "but I've never seen one so bright. It's almost as if it's glowing, and it's completely smooth."

Dora smirked, a look that clearly said, "I told you so."

"Come on, then, put it on."

"I couldn't. If this diamond is real, it must be worth a fortune." Charlotte ran a reverent finger over the glistening stone but jerked her hand back when she felt its heat. "It's warm?"

"Of course it is, silly, it's been in my pocket, and it's incredibly warm in here after all. We'll have to ask Betsy to drop the thermostat a bit tonight." She draped the necklace across her lap and placed her hands on her daughter's shoulders until she forced her around.

It was comforting, Charlotte thought, to have her mother's hands drifting through her hair again, pulling the thick chocolate strands up until she could slide the necklace on and clasp it at the back. The metal was a cool contrast to the heat of the stone, and Charlotte admired the way the light played across the shimmering metal. "It's deceptively light," she said. "I expected it to weigh a ton with how these antlers reach."

"Keep it safe," was all her mother said. "It has what you need."

"Thank you," Charlotte said. She was convinced that it was merely a well-made costume piece her mother had ordered from one of the many junk mail catalogs that flooded her mailbox. After all, Charlotte had to work two jobs to keep up with her mother's house, medical expenses, Betsy's salary, and the living expenses for both. Not to mention her own required expenditures, including her apartment in the city that was closer to work. There was no way either of them could've afforded a real stone the size of the grape-shaped pseudo-diamond set into the necklace gracing her chest.

"For what?" Her mother smiled, running a hand over her daughter's head.

"The necklace is beautiful. I'll hardly want to take it off." It was true. Costume piece or not, it was the most beautiful necklace she owned now, and although she wasn't particularly into hunting or deer, the antlers were stunning and graceful.

"What necklace?" Her mother asked, and then, catching sight of the silver glinting against her daughter's dark sweater, she grinned, "That's gorgeous! Did you get that from a man, by chance?"

The night had been draining enough, so Charlotte chose the easy way this time. "You know I have no men in my life."

"You should though," She said, ignoring her daughter's heavy groan. "Seriously, you're nearly thirty Charlotte. You can't just let life pass you by. You're smart and funny and gorgeous and, sure, I'm biased, but that doesn't mean it's not true."

"I still have plenty of time. It's not like I'm-" Charlotte's gaze flew to her mother. "How old am I?"

"Well, let's see," Her mother suddenly seemed cautious. "It's February now. You were born in May of '92, so 27."

Charlotte's throat tightened. "You remember."

"Of course, I remember! How could I forget my own daughter's birth?" Her mother chuckled. "I was in labor with you for two and a half days, after all. Not to mention you were over a week late. But you were so stubborn, you simply refused to come out, and you've been just as determined since."

"Besty!" Charlotte screamed. "Betsy, she remembers!"

Betsy flew into the living room, wiping suds off her hands with a little towel. "What does she remember?"

"She knows how old I am!" Charlotte was practically bouncing with excitement and failed to notice the shadow drift across the caretaker's face.

"That's fantastic," Betsy said, though Charlotte thought her voice sounded sad. "You two enjoy it." She seemed to silently imply, "...while it lasts."

The next twenty minutes were spent catching her mother up on all the things Charlotte had been doing over the years, from the few short relationships she'd managed, to projects she'd completed at work, the research she'd been assisting with at the University, and the online night courses she was slowly working through to improve her Latin.

The emotional crash when her mother drifted out was nearly overwhelming. "I'm so proud of you. You're going to do great things, I know it," Her mother had said. "I remember telling your father when you were little…"

Charlotte never did find out what Dora had told her father. "You told him…" Charlotte prompted, squeezing her mother's hand as if to keep her memory in her body.

"I'm sorry." Dora shook her head and squeezed back. "I must've spaced out. What were you saying?"

"I was saying I should start heading home," Charlotte pressed her lips tight to keep them from wobbling and quickly turned away to hide the gathering tears.

Betsy must have been keeping an ear on the conversation, for she strolled into the living room in a picture of calm and collected efficiency and pulled Dora up with an arm under her charge's elbow. "Time for your medicine, Dora. It's late, and we all need to get some rest."

Her mother nodded, before enveloping Charlotte in a one-armed hug. "She's right; I'm exhausted. I'll see you in the morning, honey," her mother said. "Love you. Sleep tight."

If Charlotte held on a little longer, her mother didn't say anything. She smoothed her fingers over her daughter's curls and pressed a kiss to the top of her head before Betsy ushered her to the kitchen for her pre-bedtime meds.

The drive to her lonely apartment felt twice as long, and Charlotte couldn't shake the heaviness that had settled in her heart. Her mind played over Betsy's desolate attitude when her mother had such mental clarity. Charlotte couldn't remember a single time in the past four years when her mother had been so alert and focused.

By the time she was settled in her bed and had changed into a pair of loose black sweatpants and a plain t-shirt, she'd pushed Betsy's reaction from her mind. Instead, she fingered the glossy diamond-like stone in her new necklace. Despite what she had said to her mother, she thought it too extravagant to sleep in, regardless of its surprising comfort and weightlessness. She was still clutching the stone in her fingers when her phone buzzed. The screen lit up as it rattled across her nightstand, and a circular photo of Besty from last Christmas popped up.

"Hey, Betsy." Charlotte wedged the phone between her ear and shoulder and continued her study of the necklace. "Did Mom give you trouble this evening after I left?"

The line was silent for a moment, and when Betsy finally spoke, her voice cracked, "Charlotte-"

Charlotte darted up. "What happened? Is Mom ok? Let me throw my shoes on; I can be there in less than thirty minutes if I fly."

"Charlotte, honey-"

"No."

"I'm sorry."

"I just talked to her, and she was fine."

"She said she was tired and went to lay down. I must've only been gone maybe five minutes after I got her settled in her bed. I brought her nighttime meds and tried to rouse her. I did CPR until the paramedics arrived, but they couldn't revive her. They said it was likely a heart attack but won't know for sure without an autopsy. I'm so sorry, Charlotte."

Charlotte felt like her head was underwater. "But I just talked to her. She remembered, and we were talking, and she was fine. She remembered."

"I know." She seemed to hesitate, "It's why I was concerned earlier. It's not unheard of for terminal patients to experience a day of lucidity or a last-rally before…" She cleared her throat, and Charlotte heard her sniffle.

"Why didn't you say anything?" Charlotte asked, clenching the phone tighter. Dimly, she noted tines of the antlers pricking her skin. "Why did you warn me?"

"When it only lasted twenty minutes, I thought maybe I was paranoid," she said. "Besides, you were so happy to have your mother for those few minutes. Would you trade that time for twenty minutes of fretting and worry?"

"I could've done something though."

"Like what?" she said gently.

"I don't know. Called an ambulance?"

"And told them what? That your mother was having a lucid spell?"

Charlotte's lips quivered, and she clenched her jaw. "You're right." She finally said. "I'm sorry. I just can't believe…"

"I know. I can't believe she's gone either. She loved you so much." Besty seemed to be losing the battle against her own emotions. "Try to rest tonight, if you can. We can discuss her funeral arrangements in the morning."

"Thank you for caring for her, Betsy."

Whatever Besty said, Charlotte didn't hear. She'd already pulled the phone from her ear and ended the call, her eyes wide and unseeing.

She felt her body shaking, felt the cool tines of her mother's last gift jammed into the skin of her palm. What was that horrible grating sound? She belatedly realized it was coming from her. She couldn't breathe.

Her mother was dead.

For the past ten years, her mother's welfare had been her singular focus. How had everything gone so wrong so quickly? She'd finally remembered her. Why couldn't she breathe?

There was a rushing sound in her ears. Her lungs burned as she wheezed. In. Out. In Out. InOutInOut. She needed air. She needed air. Spots danced in front of her eyes. Is this how her mother felt all alone in her bed? Would she die here too? Would she see her soon?

The necklace burned in her hand. White filled her watery vision. Her room spun, and the last thought she had before passing out was, "What do I really have left?"