"She Doesn’t Remember Me, But I Still Love Her"

It started with little things.

She’d forget why she walked into a room. Misplace her reading glasses even though they were sitting right on her head. We used to laugh about it. We joked that getting older meant collecting more stories and losing more car keys.

But over time, the forgetting became something else.

She started asking the same questions repeatedly, sometimes three or four times in one conversation. Then one day, she left the stove on and walked out of the kitchen. The smell of something burning brought me running.

Another time, she got confused at the grocery store and couldn’t find the way back to the car.

We tried to write it off. Stress, maybe. Fatigue. We both hoped it would pass.

Then one morning, over breakfast, she looked at me and said,
“Do you live here too?”

That’s when I knew.

We’ve been married for 36 years.

We met at a bus stop during college. She offered me half her sandwich after mine fell into a puddle. I still remember her smile — wide and kind, like she already knew we’d end up together.

We built a life from scratch. Shared a tiny apartment. Ate cheap takeout. Argued about curtains. Learned to love better over time. We raised our daughter. Buried her parents. Held hands through grief and joy, bills and birthdays, long drives and quiet Sunday mornings.

She was the strong one. The one who always had a plan. Who packed extra snacks, knew when to call the doctor, and made the best tea when I had a cold.

Now, I make her tea. I zip up her coat. I help her remember things she no longer holds onto.

Some days are still okay.

She’ll wake up and recognize me. She’ll call me by name. We’ll have breakfast together, go for a short walk, and maybe even laugh about something. She likes watching birds out the window. Humming along to songs she used to sing while cooking.

But there are also the hard days.

Days when she’s scared of me. When she looks around the house we’ve lived in for twenty years and says she wants to go home. Days when she forgets how to button her shirt or hold a spoon.

On those days, I remind her gently:
“I’m Eli. I’m your husband. You’re safe here.”

Sometimes she nods. Sometimes she just stares. But I stay anyway.

People don’t always understand why.

They ask if I’m exhausted. (I am.)
They ask how long I’ll keep doing this. (As long as she needs me.)
Some even say, “But she doesn’t even remember you.”

That’s true.

But I remember her.

I remember how she used to wait up for me when I worked late. How she tucked handwritten notes into my suitcase when I traveled for work. How she knew exactly what to say when our daughter broke her arm and I panicked like a fool.

I remember her laugh, her dreams, her stubbornness, and how she used to fall asleep mid-sentence during movie nights.

I remember it all.

And I carry it for both of us now.

One afternoon, I found her sitting on the porch holding a photo from our wedding. She looked down at it for a long time.

“Do you know them?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “That’s us.”

She gave a small smile. “They look happy.”

“We were,” I said. “We still are. Just in a different way now.”

She didn’t reply, but she held the photo gently, like it was something fragile and precious — which, in a way, it was.

Our daughter visits every Sunday.

She brings baked goods, family photos, and a lot of patience. She sits with her mother, flipping through albums, pointing at old birthdays and vacations. Sometimes there’s a flicker of recognition. Sometimes not. But she keeps showing up.

We all do. Because even if her memories fade, our love for her doesn’t.

Last week, we had a quiet evening. She was tired, so I helped her into bed early. As I pulled the blanket over her, she looked up at me and said,
“I don’t know your name. But you always make me feel safe.”

I sat beside her, trying not to cry.

“You don’t have to remember my name,” I said. “You just rest. I’ll be here.”

She nodded and closed her eyes.

In that moment, I didn’t need anything else.

I don’t know what tomorrow will look like. Maybe she’ll forget how to speak. Maybe she won’t remember how to smile. Maybe one day she’ll look at me and see only a stranger.

But no matter what happens, I will be here.

I’ll keep making tea. Brushing her hair. Sitting beside her during the silent afternoons. I’ll keep telling her that she’s loved, even if the words get lost on their way in.

Because love isn’t about what someone can give back.

She doesn’t remember me. But I still love her.

And in some quiet part of her, even if she can’t say it out loud —
I believe she still loves me too.