We come to this store every Tuesday. Same routine. She picks out her favorite red bag of plain chips, I follow behind with the list, and we always end with one of those tiny coffees by the pharmacy window.
Today started no different.
She was quiet, but she’s been that way more and more lately. I tried to hand her the bag like usual, and she just stared at it, then at me, and said,
“Where’s my husband? He’s supposed to meet me here.”
I thought she was joking.
Sometimes she plays little games like that when she’s tired.
But her face didn’t change.
She looked straight through me, like I was some stranger bothering her. Her hands trembled as she set the chips down on her lap, and she said, softer this time,
“I think I’m lost.”
I sat her down right there, next to the barbecue and sour cream & onion, and held her hand.
I told her my name.
Told her how we met.
Told her the name of our dog, even though he’s been gone six years now.
She blinked slow. Like something was trying to break through the fog.
Then she whispered something I wasn’t ready to hear.
Something she’s never said out loud—not to me, not even to her doctor.
“I’m scared. I don’t know how to hold on to you.”
And just like that, I wasn’t standing in a store anymore.
I was standing at the edge of something I couldn’t fix.
Couldn’t protect her from.
Couldn’t bargain with.
We sat there for a long time. I kept talking. Small things—favorite foods, inside jokes, memories of that trip to the coast where she lost her shoes in the tide and laughed for hours.
And eventually… she looked at me again.
Really looked at me.
Tears welled up in her eyes and she touched my face like she was tracing a memory.
“You’re him,” she said, barely audible.
“You’re my person.”
I nodded, smiling through the ache.
“I always will be.”
We left the chips behind that day.
Sat in the car for a while, just breathing.
She held my hand the whole ride home. Like she was afraid if she let go, I’d disappear too.
Here’s what I’ve learned:
Love doesn’t always live in memory.
Sometimes it lives in repetition.
In gentle reminders.
In sitting down beside someone when the world stops making sense to them.
Sometimes love is saying,
“It’s okay if you forget. I’ll remember for both of us.”
If this story touched you, share it. Like it if you believe love can stay—even when names and faces start to fade. And if you’re loving someone through the fog… you are not alone.
