After that, we mostly stopped trying.

One night in bed, I asked Owen,

“If you could do one completely normal thing right now, what would it be?”

He thought about it.

“Go to a movie.”

“That’s all?”

“Sit in the dark. Eat overpriced popcorn. Forget everything for two hours.”

“What movie?”

For the first time in days, he smiled.

“The new Spider-Man.”

I laughed.

“You’re thirty-eight.”

“I’ve seen every one since I was a kid.”

Then his smile faded slightly.

“My dad used to take me.”

I stayed quiet.

“It was the one place we could go where he didn’t yell,” Owen said. “You can’t yell through a movie without everybody noticing.”

He looked away.

“I always felt safe there.”

I reached for his hand.

“Then we’re going.”

It took almost three weeks to arrange.

I found a caregiver through an agency named Mrs. Pham.

She had spent twenty years working in memory care.

She came to our house twice before the movie just so Frank could get used to her.

The second time she visited, he called her by his mother’s name.

She didn’t correct him.

She simply asked,

“Want to watch a western?”

They watched two.

I booked the 8:30 showing for opening weekend.

Two reserved seats.

Row F.

Exactly in the middle.

I even bought Owen a Spider-Man shirt as a joke.

He proudly wore it.

That Friday evening, Frank was asleep in his recliner when we left.

Mrs. Pham sat nearby knitting.

“Go,” she told us. “Enjoy yourselves. I’ll call if I need anything.”

Owen lingered near the door.

“What if he wakes up confused?”

“She knows what to do.”

I took his hand.

“Two hours, Owen. Tonight you don’t have to be a caregiver. You get to be a man going to a movie with his wife.”

He smiled.

“Just a guy at a movie.”

“Exactly.”

The theater was packed.

Children wore superhero costumes.

Teenagers crowded the concession stand.

The lobby smelled like butter, candy, and that strange carpet scent every movie theater seems to have.