Every time she forgets, I choose to remember. It’s a quiet decision I make, not out of stubbornness, but because memory holds a kind of power. When she lets go of moments, names, or promises, I hold them close. It’s like carrying a small light in the dark, a way to keep what matters alive even when it slips away from her.
Forgetting is natural. We all do it. But when it happens to someone you care about, it can feel like pieces of your shared story are fading. So I step in to fill the gaps. I remember the little things she forgets—the birthdays, the jokes, the plans we made. I remember the way she smiled that one time, the sound of her voice when she was happy, the dreams she once shared. These memories become my way of holding on, not just to her, but to us.
Choosing to remember is an act of love and patience. It means accepting that she might not always be able to keep everything in her mind, but that doesn’t mean those things are lost forever. I become the keeper of our history, the one who gently brings back what she can’t find on her own. It’s not about making her feel bad or reminding her of what she missed; it’s about making sure she never truly loses what we’ve built together.
Sometimes, remembering for her means telling stories again, repeating the same details with kindness and care. It means understanding that forgetting isn’t a choice she makes—it’s something that happens to her. And so, I choose to be patient, to be steady, to be the memory when hers falters.
In this way, every time she forgets, I choose to remember. It’s a quiet promise, a way of saying that no matter what slips away, what we have will always be there, held safe in the heart of someone who cares.
