I watched him vomit this evening’s wonderful dinner again. We shared it just a few hours earlier, and now it was all over the carpet. He laughed while I cleaned it up, eyes rolling back in his head as he stumbled across the room. I couldn’t be mad at him; I knew it was the disease, not him.

He told me things last night he doesn’t remember. I could tell this morning, that he had no idea what we shared. He didn’t even remember me sleeping over. He used to, though. I keep telling myself - I can’t be mad at him: it’s the disease.

I watched him begin to heal, shivering as he put the drink down and smashed the bottle on the ground. He cleaned it up this time, not me. Then, he promised his sobriety to himself and to me. The disease hadn’t won.

Now, I watch him exercise with a genuine smile - all these years later. He’s alive and vibrant, and I’m here still, too. He doesn’t blame anything on the disease anymore. We are happy.