There are things she remembers: saying, “Thank you,” the thirst for Orangina, her grandmother’s tomato salad. But most other things are revelations to her. Everyday, there is shock when he hands her a battery-powered toothbrush, the weight of it in her hand so foreign. She can’t help but giggle when it tickles her gums. She had a vague recollection of something smaller and lighter than this novelty.

At breakfast, he tells her with every spoonful of creamy, white goo, “This is yogurt. You like yogurt.” And, of course, she does. And, of course, she says, “Thank you.” And, of course, she asks, “What is this?” at least three more times before he gets to the part where he’s scraping the bottom of the bowl with the spoon, something that always makes him grind his teeth just a little as his tired smile reveals the frequency of this very conversation, of these very words, morning after morning. “This is yogurt. You like yogurt.”

Everyone said he was lucky. The nurses always made a point of saying how sweet she was with it all, the way she just accepted this new reality. He couldn’t argue that. Her wonder at his skill with the preparation of jarred spaghetti sauce was flattering. He also loved the look of sheer joy on her face every afternoon when he turned on “Too Cute Puppies”; it made him feel a lot less guilty about parking her in front of the TV for an hour, in much the way she’d made him vow never to occupy their own three children when they were young, so long ago.

He’d had decades to master the task of meeting her demands. Yes, he was lucky now. As they said, she was sweet and obedient and grateful. But he knew her so much better than they did. Sweetness was new for her. He couldn’t help but wonder, was she still in there? Using this as just another way to call the shots? Scheming to make sure they only ever ate yogurt and watched puppies on TV? Because the truth was he still saw flashes of the woman he’d married and almost—just almost—divorced. Her newfound sweetness would acidify the moment he offered her cottage cheese or tried to watch Bill Maher.

Cruelly enough, he remembered everything, including the way her shoulders had relaxed and her jaw had unclenched during one of those early visits to the neurologist. There was no question that she willingly surrendered to no longer having to remember her keys or keep a calendar or do anything for anyone ever again. They both knew that she could have fought a little harder and held on a little tighter. The truth was, she wanted to forget it all.

And who could blame him, really, for thinking this way? Because that very night, as he drew her bath and added a little lavender-scented oil, and told her, as always, “It’s lavender. You like lavender,” her eyes looked to him like they used to as she said simply, “I remember.”