Griff （age 62）
A cloudy slick rises across the butter in my pan, separating like curdled cream. The rosemary sauce has split. I watch it
for a second too long before saying anything. Another mistake we can’t afford. Every table is booked tonight.
My sous-chef Matilda clocks it. She doesn’t say anything, just slides the pan off the heat and starts it over, with quick
hands and a tight jaw. She’s good—always was, though I probably haven’t told her enough. Cool under pressure, even now. I
never thought I’d be passing her the reins, not for at least another ten years anyway, and not like this.
The article flashes in my mind. I press the heel of my hand to my eye socket. It doesn’t help. The ache’s not behind my eyes;
it’s behind everything. I was up most of the night again. Every time sleep came close, I was woken. By dawn, I gave up as
though staying awake could stop it from happening. But I know there is no choice. I must do this. No other way to quieten
my guilt, to keep us safe.
Pans clatter in a frantic rhythm. I dust the scallops with cinnamon instead of cumin. Bloody hell, this is torturous. I can’t
bear mistakes—especially not my own.
“Let me . . . finish that for you,” Matilda says, in a voice usually reserved for children or the very elderly.
After they were told about the dementia diagnosis, everything changed. The way the staff paused before correcting me. The slower nods. The kind smiles. No one said anything, but I could feel the shift. Everyone could. The smell of sympathy oozed from every hot plate, every oven.
The lamb is still resting on the counter when I go to plate it. I already know it will be raw in the middle. Matilda’s hand
reaches past mine, re-firing the pan without a word.
The kitchen moves like it always has—fast, polished, and efficient. But there’s a tightness underneath it tonight. A kind
of hush you only notice when something’s ending.
Because it is. This is my last night at Lorraine. The call has finally been made. The symptoms have become worse. The forgetting,
the accidents. If I want to hold on to the one thing that ever made my name worth anything, I need to stick with the plan
and walk away now, before I lose it altogether.
I stand at the pass, watching my final plate go out like a coffin from the church.
The staff keep their eyes on their stations. They all know what’s happening, even if no one’s said it out loud.
I untie my apron, fold it once, then slip away quietly out the back, unseen. I don’t want any ceremony or any speeches, just
the sound of the kitchen settling behind me. The distant clatter of cutlery being sorted for a tomorrow I won’t see. I built
this place from nothing. Every plate, every surface, every burn on my fingers—it’s all part of me. And now I’m walking away
from it like I was never here.
Because staying would mean pretending I can carry on as if nothing is wrong, as if a man’s life hasn’t been snatched away
from him. As if the walls don’t echo with it.
I rest a hand on the door. I don’t want to go. But I can’t stay.
So I walk away from the one thing I’ve ever been good at and disappear into a life where no one will ask who I used to be.