When I married Harold, he used to write me little notes and hide them in the most unexpected places—inside the glove compartment, tucked into coffee filters, or taped beneath the bottle of laundry detergent.
He would smile and say, “Just in case you forget how much you’re loved.”

Now, I’m the one reminding him.

It started with small things. Forgetting where he left the car keys, people’s names, important appointments. Then one day, mid-sentence, he looked at me with a puzzled and apologetic expression and asked,
“Wait… what’s your name again?”

I smiled, kissed his cheek, and gently said it once more.

Since then, each day has been a delicate dance between memory and instinct. Even if he doesn’t always remember how he knows me, he knows I belong in his life. Sometimes I’m “the nice lady,” other times “the scarf girl,” or “peach blouse.” My actual name rarely comes up. Still, his face lights up every time he sees me.

We share a bench in the backyard. He calls it “the waiting place.” Nobody told him to call it that—he simply did one day. Around sunset, he’ll wander out wearing his Windy Oaks cap, sit quietly, and stare into the horizon as if expecting something—or someone.

Once, I asked him, “What are you waiting for?”

Without looking away, he softly said, “She always comes around this time. The woman with the kind eyes.”

That was when I realized he wasn’t waiting for me.
He was waiting for someone else. Someone from long ago.
The knot in my stomach tightened, and I was left wondering who this “woman with the kind eyes” was. His memory wasn’t just fading—it was changing, twisting into something unfamiliar.

I tried to brush it off. Harold had always been a dreamer. Maybe it was nostalgia, a fragment of his youth drifting back. But every evening, he sat on that bench, staring like he was waiting for a train that never arrived.

In the beginning, I joined him. We would sit in silence as the golden light bathed the garden. I’d talk about our past—vacations, birthdays, quiet nights at home. He’d nod and sometimes smile. His eyes were often far away, but they were kind when they met mine. Yet there were moments when I knew—he wasn’t really with me.

It became harder to deny.
I was losing Harold—not all at once, but piece by piece. Not just names and places, but the very essence of our life together. The memories of our first kiss, our inside jokes, the promises we made. It all slipped away like sand through his fingers.

One evening, I sat beside him and asked the question that had been haunting me.
“Harold, who is the woman you’re waiting for?”

He furrowed his brow, then his face softened.
“She’s the one who used to wait for me at the station,” he whispered. “She promised she’d always be there.”

My heart broke.

That woman wasn’t me. It was someone he loved before I entered his life. A ghost from a past I never knew. Maybe his mind was holding onto her while slowly letting go of everything else.

I took a shaky breath and held his hand.
“I’m here, Harold,” I said quietly. “I’ve always been here. I love you. I just don’t know how to reach you anymore.”

There was a flicker in his eyes, like a moment of recognition—but it passed. He gave me a smile, one I didn’t know. Soft. Distant. As if for someone far away.

Weeks passed. His memory never returned to me fully, but I never stopped sitting with him on that bench. Sunset after sunset, we watched the world shift. Doctors told me Alzheimer’s was slow and cruel. I had hoped Harold would somehow escape that fate. I thought maybe I could pull him back. But I began to understand—I couldn’t.

One quiet evening, I sat beside him again, my heart full of words I’d never get to say.
I whispered, “I’ll be here. Even if you forget my name, I’ll still be here.”

The next morning, while making breakfast, I found something in the pocket of his coat. A small folded piece of paper. The handwriting was his—shaky, unsure.

My heart raced as I opened it and read:

“I’m waiting for you, lady with the kind eyes.
I always will.”

I couldn’t breathe. The note was for me—even if he didn’t know it.
And in that moment, I finally understood.
I was the woman with the kind eyes.
I had always been.

It wasn’t about him remembering who I was—it was about feeling it. Somewhere deep inside, our love still lived. It had changed shape—become quieter, softer, more patient—but it had not died.

That evening, I joined him again on the bench. He was already there, looking toward the fading light.

I took his hand and said, “I’m here, Harold. I always have been. And I always will be.”

He turned slowly and looked into my eyes. And for a moment—just a moment—I saw him. The man I fell in love with all those years ago.

His smile was real.

“I know,” he whispered. “I know.”

And that’s when I understood something deeper than I ever had:
Love isn’t just about remembering.
It’s about being there.
It’s about showing up every day, even when the world changes, even when everything else fades.

I realized I didn’t have to hold onto the past. All I needed was this moment, here with him.

Maybe that’s what we all need—
To be present.
To love gently.
To stop fearing what we can’t control.

If you’re going through something like this, please remember:
Sometimes, the most powerful way to love is simply to stay.
Even in the hardest moments.

Because love doesn’t vanish.
It just changes.