A Memory Problem Is A Priority Problem

My boyfriend, Liam, had the memory of a particularly self-centered goldfish.

He’d grab an iced latte when my cramps were debilitating.

He’d forget I was battling a stomach flu and suggest a three-hour road trip.

He once completely blanked on my birthday because his college roommate spontaneously flew into town.

After the fact, he always rubbed the back of his neck, the picture of contrite confusion.

“I’m so sorry, Eliza. My memory is trash, you know that. Can you forgive me just this one more time? I promise, I’ll set a reminder.”