This year, the holidays came quietly for Sarah and her husband, Tom, who is living with dementia. The season he used to light up for now seemed to confuse him, and she felt that deep ache—the one that comes when you’re missing someone who’s still right in front of you.
One afternoon, as she unpacked a few decorations, Tom picked up an old ornament their daughter had made years ago. He didn’t remember the story behind it, but he held it gently and said, “It’s pretty.” And just like that, Sarah felt her heart soften. She realized she didn’t need to recreate the holidays they used to have. She just needed to meet him where he was.
So they created a new rhythm. Soft music instead of big gatherings. A tiny tree they decorated together at the kitchen table. Slow drives to look at lights—Tom smiling at the bright ones, reaching for her hand when he felt unsure.
On Christmas Eve, they sat by the window watching the last bit of daylight fade. Tom leaned his head on her shoulder—something he hadn’t done in a long time—and whispered, “I’m glad you’re here.”
And in that moment, Sarah understood something she had been struggling to accept: their holidays may have changed, but their love had not. It was still there—quiet, steady, and shining in the small moments. And those moments were the greatest gift of all.