“It is.”
“Does it end happily?”
I looked at him.
My husband.
The man who no longer knew my name.
Who couldn’t remember our daughter.
Who had forgotten the lake where he once promised to marry me.
But who still treasured a ring without understanding why.
“Yes,” I whispered. “It does.”
He tilted his head.
“How can you be sure?”
I leaned forward and kissed his cheek.
“Because she’s still here.”
He smiled.
Then, slowly, he rested his hand on my knee.
Exactly the way he used to when we were young and driving with the windows rolled down.
I placed my hand over his.
Outside, the ducks drifted across the pond.
The late afternoon sunshine turned the water silver and gold.
And for a moment, it looked almost like Loon Lake.
Mark doesn’t remember.
But I do.
I remember the hardware store.
The terrible hinge drawing.
