I park the car and sit for a moment. Hands on the wheel. It’s strange, waiting to take my wife home, when she doesn’t remember she is my wife. Five years gone, just like that. For her, I’m… what? A stranger with a ring. A name she knows from the television. Not the man who makes her coffee every morning, or who fought with her about curtains last winter, or who held her hand when she cried for no reason at all.

When I walk inside, she looks at me like she’s studying me, polite but unsure. It cuts deeper than I thought it would. I want to say you know me, you love me, you laughed at my bad jokes just yesterday. But I don’t. I just carry her bag.

The nurse talks too much. Papers, instructions, reminders. I nod, but my eyes stay on her. On the way she frowns like she’s trying to pull memories back by force.

In the car, silence sits between us. Usually, it’s a good silence. Comfortable. Now it’s heavy. She finally asks if it’s true that we’ve been married five years. I just say, “Yes.” My voice sounds smaller than usual.

She doesn’t answer, just stares out the window. I grip the steering wheel tighter. I want to tell her everything how we met, the stupid first date, the way she snores softly when she falls asleep on the sofa. But I don’t push. I just drive her home, to the place that’s ours, hoping that somewhere in those walls she will feel it again. That she will feel us.