Then he looked directly at the camera.
“And one day, Lee, I might forget you.”
A sound escaped
my throat.
I barely recognized it as my own.
Mark began crying.
“I can’t bear the thought of looking at you and not knowing who you are.”
He wiped his eyes.
“So I’m trying to prepare while I still can. I’ve put everything in this folder.”
He gave a small, heartbroken smile.
“I want you to hear this from me, in my own voice, while I can still tell you.”
Then he whispered,
“I love you, Lee. I’ve loved you since the day you laughed at my terrible drawing of a hinge.”
He swallowed.
“And whatever happens, I need you to remember that.”
The video ended.
I sat frozen in his office.
For two days, I’d believed my husband was betraying me.
I’d imagined him slipping a wedding ring onto another woman’s hand.
I’d pictured him taking someone else into our honeymoon suite.
But he’d been hiding something entirely different.
He was frightened of losing his memories.
And he’d been carrying that fear alone for five months.
I covered my face and cried.
I thought about every forgotten grocery item.
Every misplaced set of keys.
Every time he’d repeated a question.
I’d rolled my eyes.
Called him an old man.
Teased him for being distracted.
All those months, he’d already known something was wrong.
And I hadn’t.
—
When I finally managed to look at the laptop again, I opened the next file.
A spreadsheet.
Its title was simple.
THE PLAN
It was arranged in neat columns, exactly the way Mark organized construction projects.
Dates.
Names.
Telephone numbers.
Deposits.
Tasks.
The first entry listed the Gull’s Nest café.
Carol had reserved the outdoor deck for September 20 at five o’clock.
The next entry was the Lakeview Inn.
Room 12.
Reserved for September 20 through 23.
Then came Holloway & Sons Fine
Jewelry.
A custom-made gold wedding band.
Wider than his old ring.
Designed with a hinge so it could open around his damaged knuckle.
Ready for collection September 14.
There were notes about flowers.
White daisies, like the ones we’d used at our first wedding.
A song.
“At Last.”
Our original wedding music.
Pastor Jim, the minister who’d married us twenty-six years earlier.
Our daughter Sophie.
Mark had written a reminder to tell her everything and ask her to help choose my dress.
