“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.
