"Benny! I'm hungry!" shouts grandma from the couch in the living room.
You know she's hungry; you've been fixing her lunch for the last five minutes, after you explicitly told her you were going into the kitchen to fix her lunch. Also, your name isn't Benny. Benny was your father.
These are things you've learned to just take in stride. Really you're thankful for every day she doesn't call the police to report you as an intruder.
You bring in her lunch -a plain grilled cheese sandwich and a side of tomato soup- on a wheeled portable serving table, hospital style.
"You know I need to eat in here. I like to watch the TV," she explains, just like she does at every meal.
"Don't want to watch Donahue. I hate that idiot."
"I don't think Donahue's coming on, grandma."
"Good. I don't want to watch him."
She picks up the sandwich and stares at it for a moment, as if she's forgotten what food is. Maybe she has. "Benny?" she calls.
"You made this?"
"Thank you, dear. I love you, Benny. You're gonna make a great daddy for that boy of yours."
You can't take it. You step outside to cry. Grandma doesn't need to see it, even if she won't remember.