Not ours.

Not his, dressed up as ours.

Mine.

The tumor had threatened to take my memory, and had failed, and in failing it had left me with the one thing I had somehow mislaid across a decade and a half of marriage while my brain was perfectly healthy: the memory of who I actually was.

It is a strange thing to have to nearly lose your mind to a growth the size of a walnut in order to recover a self you gave away, slowly and by choice, in full health, to a man in a good suit.

But that is what happened to me.