“How much time do we have, Doc?” Henry asked.
“Three to five years before significant deterioration.”
“And after that?”
“She may not recognize her children. Or her grandchildren.”
“What about me?” he pressed.
The doctor hesitated. “Eventually… possibly…”
I heard Henry struggle to breathe.
“There is an experimental treatment,” the doctor continued. “Expensive. Not covered by insurance. But it could slow things down.”
“How much?”
“About $80,000.”
“I’ll pay it. I’ll sell the house if I have to. Just give me more time with her.”
My heart stopped.
“Henry, you need to tell Rosemary,” the doctor said gently. “She has a right to know.”
Rosemary.
Me.
The doctor continued, “2026—early memory loss becomes noticeable. 2027—difficulty recognizing faces. 2029—major cognitive decline. By 2032—advanced stage.”
The dates.
The paintings.
Henry had been painting my future.
I pushed the door open.
“So… I’m the woman on the walls?”
“Rosie… you followed me?”
“Yes. I heard everything.”
The doctor quietly left us alone.
Henry reached for me. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t want you to find out like this.”
“How long have you known?”
“Five years.”
“Five years… and you didn’t tell me?”
“I tried. I just couldn’t say it.”
I sat down, my voice trembling. “What’s wrong with me?”
“Early-onset Alzheimer’s,” he said softly. “It’s slow… but it will get worse.”
Suddenly, things made sense—the moments I forgot why I entered a room, the grandchild’s name that slipped away, the familiar recipe that felt foreign.
“I thought I was just getting old.”
“You are, my love. But it’s more than that.”
I looked at my hands. “You’ve been preparing for the day I forget you.”
He knelt in front of me, holding my hands. “If you forget me… I’ll remember enough for both of us.”
“I saw you taking money.”
“I ran out of art supplies,” he admitted with a faint smile.
After a long silence, I said, “I want to see everything. All the paintings.”
That night, he took me back into the garage.
