When I was young, my mother woke before dawn every day to pack lunchboxes for her six children. For many years, I never missed a single one. Now the roles have reversed, and I am the one preparing her breakfast. Because I work night shifts and can’t share a meal with her, I arrange her side dishes on a tray before leaving for work. As I prepare her food, hoping she will eat well, I am reminded of how picky I once was, and I feel a quiet sense of regret.