A Candlelit Dinner

He thought it was their first date; she knew it was their anniversary.

The candles flickered on the small table in the garden by the shed, casting a soft glow around them. The air was cool and crisp, carrying the scent of nearby blossoms. Thomas fidgeted with his napkin as he waited for her, heart thudding with a mix of excitement and nerves he hadn’t felt in years. When she appeared, smiling softly, he straightened as though about to rise, but something held him in place.

“Thanks for... um... coming, Lilian,” he said, a shy light in his eyes as he pushed himself halfway up the chair.

“I’m really glad I did, Thomas,” she replied, offering him a warm, steady smile.

She took the seat across from him, smoothing her skirt as if the fabric could keep her hands from trembling. He looked up at her with an earnest, almost boyish smile - the hopeful expression of a man who wants to make a good impression. She watched him, and a small pinch tightened in her chest, sharpened by a quiet sorrow. He wasn’t pretending. He truly didn’t remember her. The tenderness in his gaze - so painfully familiar to her - came not from the love they had shared, but from the fact that he had no memory of it at all. To him, she was a woman he had not yet learned to love.

Once they had shared a life together, filled with love and tenderness, one blessed with three children and seven grandchildren. And today, of all days, marked their sixtieth wedding anniversary - sixty years of simple pleasures, quiet struggles, laughter, tears, and the tiny rituals that had stitched their lives together.

And now, she carried all of it alone.

She remembered everything; he remembered nothing. The nights at the movies where he always bought her mint chocolates, the way they laughed, tipping sand from their socks after long walks along the shore, the way he walked his daughter down the aisle, smiling and proud, the dance with his daughter right afterwards, when he messed up the steps and set the whole room laughing, laughing right along with them. All of it, gone from his mind. The births of their children, the birthdays, the hospital scares that once shook them both had vanished, too. The late-night talks about money, his long shifts at the post office, and weekends at the hardware store, her double shifts as a nurse - none of it remained.

Their everyday routines, the arguments that softened into laughter, the tiny domestic habits that once held their days together - everything had slipped away.

And she missed being known by him - not just seen, but truly known. She missed the way he used to say her name, the way he looked at her, the warmth in his gaze after so many years together, and the quiet comfort of simply being understood.

Dementia had taken everything from him. It had erased not only his life, but hers as well, because living with someone who no longer remembered their story made the life they had once shared feel as though it had never existed at all.

She could have stayed in her own apartment - everyone told her she should. She was healthy, independent, and still capable of doing everything on her own. But the thought of him spending his last years surrounded only by strangers felt wrong. So she took a room on the women’s floor just above his, to be near him when the world would begin to fade. She told everyone it wasn’t a sacrifice. It was simply where she belonged. And maybe that’s why it felt like home right away.

He took a bite of his food, then glanced at her.

“Would you like some wine?” he asked, and she nodded. He carefully poured a small amount into her glass.

“Thank you, Thomas.”

He took a sip from his glass, letting his gaze linger on her for a moment.

“It’s... peaceful, being here with you, ” he said, taking another small sip.

She met his gaze, letting the warmth of the moment settle between them.“I’m glad,” she replied softly.

He glanced around the garden, a moment of confusion flickering over his face.

“Somebody must have told me about this place... but I can’t remember who,” he said, his voice lifting slightly with unease.

She reached out, placing her hand over his.

“It doesn’t matter. Thomas. What matters is that we are here, together.”

He smiled faintly, a trace of warmth in his eyes.

They continued their meal quietly, sharing small observations about the garden, the candles, the food, as if words alone could fill the spaces left by memory.

Then, suddenly, he knocked over the wine bottle and locked his eyes on it, his expression clouded with confusion. Still focused on the spill below, he remained still, and she reached out and caressed his cheek, hoping to steady him.

“Don't you worry, Thomas. I got you,” she said softly.

For a moment, his eyes brightened, as if a fragment of memory had sparked, but it vanished as quickly as it came, leaving only the quiet intimacy of the present.