Saturday arrived quietly, with soft sunlight spilling through the curtains. After a chaotic week at work, I longed for peace. I had plans with Mark later, a dinner that felt like a hopeful break from the past.
I brewed chamomile tea, savoring its calming warmth, when the doorbell rang. Opening the door, I found Eleanor, holding an apple pie—Daniel’s favorite. My heart sank. She had forgotten our separation, a constant reminder of her dementia.
Eleanor was like a mother to me, but the weight of her memory loss was hard. I led her inside, forcing a smile. I didn’t want to break her heart by reminding her of the truth. We sat, and she began talking about the pie recipe, repeating herself like always.
Her words stung when she mentioned Daniel, still unaware that we had divorced. I excused myself, my frustration boiling over as I called him. He brushed me off, claiming his work was more important.
Back with Eleanor, I offered to call a taxi, but she suddenly winced in pain. I searched her bag for medication and found a note from the doctor—”No signs of dementia.” Shocked, I confronted her. Eleanor admitted that she’d been pretending to have dementia to avoid the guilt of losing me after Daniel stopped caring. She wanted my company but feared the truth would push me away.
Her honesty broke me. I hadn’t known. Guilt and sadness filled me, and I apologized.
The doorbell rang again—Mark had arrived. I had to cancel dinner. He offered to reschedule, understanding that something had come up. After he left, I turned back to Eleanor, ready to spend the evening with her instead.
She hesitated but agreed. We talked over tea, and she confessed how much she missed me, how losing me felt worse than losing Daniel. I reassured her that she hadn’t lost me, and we shared a quiet, healing moment.
Eleanor admitted that she had stopped believing anyone could love her. I told her she was still loved, and together, we chose honesty over silence. The evening felt peaceful, a rare moment of connection after so much hurt.