Through the underbrush, we found it: an abandoned structure. Inside, a man sat, thin, exhausted, hair streaked with gray. He looked up slowly. “I… I don’t think that’s my name.”
It was him. My husband.
Doctors later explained severe head trauma had erased his memory. He had survived for years, wandering, working odd jobs, unaware of who he was. Recovery would take months—but for the first time in six years, he was home.
Our children met him slowly, learning the man he had become. Sometimes he says, “I don’t remember this, but it feels like mine.” And it is.
I still set an extra plate at dinner—not out of grief, not out of habit.
But because hope waits.
And sometimes, hope comes home—with a muddy jacket and a dog who never gave up.