Today marks 36 years of marriage and 41 years together. When people hear those numbers, they may imagine we’ve somehow figured out the secret to a lasting marriage. They may imagine we’ve always agreed, always understood each other, or somehow avoided the struggles that come with sharing a life for more than four decades. When I think about those years, what comes to mind isn’t a secret.

One day she admitted she had gotten lost driving home from the pet store. A trip that should have taken minutes turned into nearly two hours of driving around a town she had lived in for more than thirty years.

The last thing I wanted was for my mother to see me cry. I usually tried to hide my emotions because when I was upset, she often became upset too.

The days leading up to the funeral moved quickly, as if time had shifted into something both urgent and unreal.

My heart began pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. I remember turning slowly in circles, scanning every direction at once, trying to spot them somewhere on the crowded pier. My son started pulling at my shirt. “Where are they?” And the truth was, I didn’t know. I had never been more terrified in my life.

It was as though different versions of time moved in and out around her constantly, overlapping one another without warning.

We were sitting together on my couch days after her double mastectomy. The soft afternoon light spilling across the room. She looked at me with kindness— and confusion. “How are you feeling?” I ask. My voice is calm. Even. She doesn’t answer. Instead, she looks around the room slowly, deliberately— as if she has never been here before. As if none of it is familiar. There is no recognition in her eyes. Just searching. I reach for her hand. Her left hand. I take it gently