My name is Rosemary. I’m 78. Henry and I have been married nearly 60 years.

We met in high school chemistry because our last names were side by side. He made me laugh. We married at 20, worked at the same factory, raised four children, and now have grandchildren and a great-grandchild.

Every night he still says, “I love you, Rosie.” He knows how I take my tea. He notices when I go quiet.

Henry had one rule for decades:
“Don’t go into my garage.”

The garage was his space—late-night jazz, the smell of paint thinner, the door sometimes locked. I respected it. After 60 years, you learn everyone needs a corner of their own.

But recently, something felt different. He watched me with worry, not romance.

One afternoon he left his gloves behind. I assumed he was in the garage and went to give them to him. The door was slightly open. Dust floated in the light.

Inside, every wall was covered with portraits of a woman—laughing, crying, sleeping, aging. In the corners were dates. Some were in the future.

I pulled one down. “Who is she?”

Henry stood behind me. “I asked you not to come in.”

“Who is this woman?”

He swallowed. “I paint to hold on to time.”

I walked out shaking.

Days later, I saw him take cash from the safe and leave in his good jacket. I followed him. He went to a private neurology clinic.

From the hallway I heard the doctor say, “Her condition is progressing faster than expected.”

“How much time?” Henry asked.

“Three to five years before serious decline.”

“And after that?”

“She may not recognize her children. Possibly not you.”

They were talking about me.

The doctor mentioned projected years: early memory loss, difficulty recognizing faces, advanced stages. The same years written on the paintings.

Henry had been painting me in advance—preserving who I was before I forgot.

I walked in. “So I’m the woman on the walls?”

He looked broken. “I didn’t want you to find out like this.”

He’d known for five years: early Alzheimer’s.

I thought of recent moments—forgetting why I entered a room, struggling with a familiar recipe, blanking on a grandchild’s name.

“You’ve been preparing for the day I forget you,” I said.

“If you forget me,” he replied, “I’ll remember for both of us.”

That night he showed me the paintings. Our first meeting. Our wedding. The birth of our children. Then the future ones—me confused, distant.

On one canvas dated 2032 he’d written:

“Even if she doesn’t know my name, she will know she is loved.”

Under it, I wrote:
“If I forget everything else, I hope I remember how he held my hand.”

We decided to try the experimental treatment, no matter the cost.

I started a journal. I write down names, memories, details. Last week I forgot our daughter’s name for a moment. I wrote: “Iris. Brown hair. Kind eyes.”

Yesterday I added this:

“If one day I don’t recognize Henry, tell me this: He is your heart. He has been for 60 years. Even if your mind forgets, trust the love that remains.”

Memory may fade.

But love, I hope, will stay.