Growing up, my parents, Jack and Diane, were the epitome of a happy couple. Dad, a retired firefighter, always had a joke handy, and Mom, a former librarian, had a calm and soothing presence. They seemed unbreakable.
But one day, when I was 24, everything changed. They sat me down, like it was an intervention, and dropped a bombshell – they were getting divorced. I was shocked. How could this be? I thought they were meant to be together forever.
Dad, with his sheepish grin, shrugged and said, “Even the poster children for everlasting love need a change sometimes.” And Mom, in her usual no-nonsense tone, added, “Your father’s snoring is driving me to an early grave.”
I couldn’t help but roll my eyes at their playful banter. “Mom, you wear earplugs to bed!”
And just like that, Dad moved to a bachelor apartment on the outskirts of town, surrounded by sports memorabilia, while Mom joined a book group that was more focused on yoga than literature. Life went on like this for a few years. Dad’s place became an ESPN temple, while Mom’s book club turned into a gathering of retirees sharing juicy gossip.
Then, out of nowhere, an unexpected twist in their love story emerged. Dad showed up at Mom’s doorstep with a bouquet of flowers and a bewildered expression on his face. “Um, hello, Diane,” he stammered, scratching his head. “Do I know you?” Mom squinted at him, equally puzzled. “You look familiar. Are you selling something?”
I stood there, popcorn in hand, watching this awkward reunion unfold like a sitcom. It turns out that both of them had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. They had forgotten they were divorced, and even forgotten they were married. Talk about a plot twist.
So there they were, these two forgotten lovers, rediscovering each other like awkward teenagers on a first date. Dad would bring Mom flowers every day, and Mom would look at him cautiously until she realized he wasn’t a door-to-door salesperson.
Their interactions were like scenes from a comedy sketch. Dad would attempt to woo Mom with his finest dad jokes, only to forget the punchline halfway through. And Mom would try to shush him when he got too loud, only to forget why she was doing so in the first place.
And then there was me, caught in the middle of this charming circus, playing the role of the frustrated daughter trying to keep her parents safe. “Dad, stop trying to barbecue in the living room!” I would yell, snatching the lighter out of his hand.
“But Sarah, I thought I was grilling steaks for your mother,” he would protest, genuinely puzzled.
From the other room, Mom would chime in, “And I thought I smelled something burning!”
It was chaotic, yes, but there was a sweetness to it all. Witnessing my parents find happiness in the midst of their forgetfulness reminded me that love truly knows no bounds.
