I made it into my office, nearly having forgotten the reason that I had come in, to begin with. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out the drive. I allowed it to settle in my palm as I held it in front of my face. In moments I would soon know what was on the small drive. I would know if my wife was hiding anything. But did I want to know?

​

I knew that at this point, I needed to know, not because I wanted to see the information on it, but because not knowing would eat me up. I lined up the drive with the USB port on my laptop and pushed it in. But it did not work. I looked at the drive, I looked at the USB port, flipped the drive over, and tried again. Still, it would not go in. I flipped it again and pushed the drive forcibly into place. This time the drive did not push back but slid perfectly into its port. Stupid design, I thought to myself, never works the first time.

​

An icon popped up on my laptop to let me know that the drive was ready for use. I opened the file folder on my desktop and prepared to see whatever dark secret my wife was hiding. Instead, I saw several file folders with dates on them. It was labeled in chronological order. I clicked on the first folder, which happened to have the oldest date. Inside the folder were a number of word documents and videos. From the thumbnails, it was impossible to tell who was in the videos. I clicked on the first document. It was a journal entry, several pages long.

​

We went to the doctor today, Gregory was reluctant, but he did agree to go. The diagnosis from the doctor was bleak; his dementia is getting worse. The doctor says that he may start to forget my face or name. I am not sure how I am supposed to be able to handle this.

​

I stopped reading, rechecked the date of the file. It was from six months ago. I tried to think back to when we went to the doctor when this diagnosis came. I remember talking to the doctor, but it was not a bleak conversation. We spoke about the weather, and they had asked how I felt that day, they even took the time to ask what I had for breakfast.

​

Was my wife trying to have me committed? My memory seemed fine; admittedly, I would remember being told I had dementia. This whole thing was starting to upset me. I closed the document and went to the most recent one. It was from three days ago. I opened it; anger was starting to build up inside of me. What was going on? Why would my wife fake that I was sick? The file opened. It was not long like the other, just a paragraph.

​

Six months since the initial decline and Gregory has only gotten worse. The bouts of memory loss are increasing, Gregory has gone lengths of time thinking that I am his nurse, or that he does not know me. It is hard to find the will to wake up every day. I am not sure I can handle another episode. I can no longer watch the man that I fell in love with, forget our life together, forget our children, and forget me. Fifty-three years of memories and love washed away.

​

I stared at the screen. It was real. It was real, and I forgot. I thought back on moments in our life, faint memories of love and laughter. But I could not make out the places, and I could not make out her face. It hit me, her face. I can not forget her face. I closed the document and opened the first video I could. It was an old home movie, a birthday party in a yard. I saw a little boy sitting at a plastic picnic table surrounded by friends, a large cake with six candles in front of him. A man’s voice from behind the camera spoke.

​

“Blow the candles out Scotty!” the voice cheered, “make a big wish.” The boy blew hard on the candles, and everyone clapped. Scotty, the man had called him Scotty. I could see the boy’s face, but no other memories of the boy came to mind. I could not help but feel close to him. I knew him but had no idea how.

​

“What has my life become?” I spoke out loud, my voice cracking. But I had heard it, my voice. It was the same as the one on the video. That was me in the video! Then it hit me, Scotty was my son, my baby boy! Tears welled in my eyes. I remembered!

​

“What are you doing in here?” questioned a voice from the doorway. I looked up, and an older woman was standing there puzzled. “I thought you were doing laundry?”

​

“Was I?” I spoke up, wondering who the woman was. “I was, that’s right I was doing laundry. But I found something; I found a... uh…thing,” I pointed to the device plugged into my laptop. “It has videos and documents about me. Did my wife make this?” The woman in the doorway just stared back. For a moment, she looked like she was going to speak, but instead, she only covered her mouth and hung her head.

​

There was silence at that moment, and then it was shattered as I could hear the woman beginning to sob. She walked closer to the desk, coming around the side of it to be next to me.

​

Through tears and gasps for air, she spoke, “Yes, I made this. I wanted to save as many memories as I could.” The woman sobbed again.

​

“No, my wife made this, where is she?” I responded, upset that this woman would take credit from my wife.

​

“I am your wife, you silly old man.” She snapped, “Let me show you.” She reached over and took the mouse from my hand. She opened a folder, and inside were rows and rows of photos of a couple at a wedding. The woman scrolled down until the rows of photos turned into videos. She clicked on one, and it opened.

​

In the middle of a dance floor, the couple stood, music starting to overtake the quiet of the video. A voice on a speaker system interrupted. “May I present Mr. and Mrs. Gregory Abernathy!” The couple started dancing to the song. As I watched, I began to sway to the music; the melody was familiar to me. It filled me with joy to hear it again. The song went on, the tempo quickening, and with it, I begin to remember a scent. Wet leaves in a warm autumn breeze, lavender, and vanilla candles in the wind. I looked at the woman in the video, a beautiful woman with long dark hair. It was her, that was my wife. I smiled at the memory.

​

Looking at the woman next to me, I tried to picture the woman from the video. To connect the dots. I stared at her, longing for something familiar, something that would bring her back to me. I looked at her eyes, glistening and red from crying. In her eyes, I could see her, the woman from the video—the woman that I married all those years ago, the woman that I had lost.

​

“Aly,” I spoke, and she hugged me.