Tonight was one of those nights—those increasingly frequent nights—when he said he wanted to go home.
No matter how many times I told him he was already home, it didn’t stick. I tried to sound calm, gentle, reassuring — but nothing I said reached him. He just kept repeating it. Like my words vanished before they ever reached him.
Eventually, I tucked him into bed, exhausted from the cycle. I knew he’d get up again. So I turned off the lights and I went back to the lounge. I couldn’t take hearing it again. Sure enough, he came out twice, looking for me. I watched him from the home cameras I had installed to keep an eye on him.
Each time he wandered out, I stayed hidden—quiet, angry at myself for needing to hide. For not having enough patience. I sat there in the dark, steeped in guilt. Frustrated with myself more than with him. He didn’t ask for this. He doesn’t understand what’s happening. And here I was—too worn down to meet him with compassion in that moment.
And then I remembered something he once told me:When he was a young boy, his mum was very ill and had to be in the hospital. He was left with his grandparents and spent many nights alone in a back room, listening to the rain on the roof, longing for his mother.
And I thought—maybe that’s how he feels now. Alone. Confused. Longing for a sense of safety he can’t quite name.
I couldn’t let him go to sleep like that. I couldn’t let him carry that confusion by himself. So I crept back into bed and held him. At first, he didn’t know I was his wife. But he knew I was someone who cared.That was enough to settle him. His breathing softened, His body relaxed.
Then I turned on the light—and he recognised me. The relief on his face undid me.
Moments like these wash away a whole day’s worth of frustration.
Because no matter how tired I am, no matter how many times I lose my temper—I will not let him feel alone in the dark.
As long as I’m here,even if he forgets who I am,he will never forget how it feels to be loved.
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