She nods. “Only in the very beginning, before you figured out your notebooks and calendars. But this guy from the article would read the card whenever he needed to be reminded about his memory loss. Eventually, he stopped needing the card to remember. He just knew. He even stopped carrying the card, but whenever he got upset or confused, his hand would automatically touch his shirt pocket. Like it had comforted him in some way, and on some level he remembered that comfort.”

I’ve heard most of what she’s said, but only one thing sticks. “You read articles on memory loss?” I pull at the ends of my hair. “Because of me?”

Sefina’s face softens. “You’re my best friend. I wanted to learn everything I could about what happened to you and figure out how I could support you.” She taps my notebook. “Although you left me in the dust years ago with this whole system.”

I’m speechless and touched and also horrified to think of how the people I love have had to adapt to me and my needs. Like caregivers. All of them. Dad especially. Suddenly, I’m holding back tears, hating myself for my weakness, desperate to pretend that none of this bothers me. “How does my dad do it?”

Sefina’s smile drops. “Do what?”

“Take care of me.” I try to picture him as he is now but can’t, and the emptiness of my memory taunts me, a gigantic black hole that consumes everything. “Have I ruined his life?”

Sefina reaches across the table and puts her hand on top of mine. “No, Claire. He would have done anything for you. You did not ruin his life. Write that down, okay?”

“Okay.” And I do, unable to shake a persistent sadness that envelops me, writing that down, too, so I can figure out why I feel this way.

“I just wish you’d give yourself a break.”

I look up, confused by her words. “What do you mean?”

“You work so hard to remember everything with your notebook and calendars and even your phone. And I know it helps you to feel in control, and you are so amazing with how you’ve dealt with all of this.” Sefina tightens her ponytail, smiles, and shrugs. “Sometimes I wish you’d trust me too.”

“I don’t?” I’m taken aback by her honesty, but I don’t know what to do with it, how to absorb it.

“To be your friend, yes, of course. But you stick to such a strict schedule, and we all understand why, and frankly it’s what makes you so remarkable, but it seems”—she breathes in—“stressful, and lately, especially, it feels like you’re missing out on other kinds of experiences in favor of writing everything down. It seems so overwhelming.”