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.
