Chapter 19 - WHEN DORIAN FORGOT MY NAME
Dorian was seventy-nine the first time he forgot my name.
We were eating breakfast.
He looked across the table.
Smiled.
Then hesitated.
I knew.
My heart broke quietly.
“What?”
He frowned.
“I know you.”
“Yes.”
“I know.”
“I know you do.”
He closed his eyes.
“Give me a second.”
I waited.
Not testing.
Not panicking.
Remember what he asked years earlier.
If I forget something, tell me.
“Alina,” I said gently.
His eyes opened.
Relief.
“Alina.”
“Yes.”
“My wife.”
“Yes.”
He reached for my hand.
“I'm sorry.”
“Don't apologize.”
Neurological evaluation showed progression.
This time the diagnosis was clearer.
Early-stage dementia.
No miracle cure.
No villain to defeat.
We told everyone.
Dorian insisted.
Elena cried in his arms.
Julian sat beside him for hours.
Amelia asked what he needed.
“Normal.”
He answered.
So we tried.
He still remembered most things.
Especially old memories.
The law office.
My cream coat.
The hospital.
Twins.
Our second wedding.
Sometimes he forgot yesterday but remembered a joke from thirty years ago.
One evening he asked:
“Are we divorced?”
I smiled.
“Which time?”
He laughed.
Then looked relieved.
“I married you again?”
“Yes.”
“Smart.”
“Debatable.”
He kissed my hand.
As months became years, I learned grief could coexist with gratitude.
Some days he called me Alina.
Some days “my wife.”
Once, “Elaine,” which offended me because that was Dr. Mercer.
“She was attractive,” he said.
I stared.
He laughed.
He had done it deliberately.
“You horrible man.”
“Still got it.”
Yes.
He did.
On our second wedding anniversary—our fifty-third—our entire family gathered.
Thomas.
Elena.
Julian.
Daniel.
Amelia.
Her husband.
Our great-grandchildren.
Dorian sat at the head of the table.
Not because he demanded it.
Because the children wanted him there.
Amelia’s little son asked:
“Papa D, were you really scary?”
Dorian thought.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I thought scary meant strong.”
“Does it?”
Dorian smiled.
“No.”
“What means strong?”
He looked at me.
Then around the table.
“Being able to say you were wrong.”
Everyone became quiet.
Dorian added:
“And carrying your wife to the hospital when she refuses.”
I threw a napkin at him.
The room exploded with laughter.
For a few seconds he was thirty-eight again.
And I was the furious woman in the cream coat.
Then he looked at me.
“Alina.”
“Yes?”
“I remembered.”
My eyes filled.
“I know.”
That night in bed, he said:
“Promise me something.”
“What?”
“When I don't remember our story…”
My throat tightened.
“You tell it.”
“Every time?”
“Every time.”
May you like
I kissed him.
“I promise.”
