Julie froze in the doorway, blinking twice, convinced her eyes were playing tricks on her.

There, sitting cross-legged in the middle of their bed, was a tiny, 5’2” elderly woman dressed as though she’d stepped straight out of a sweet nostalgia postcard. The pastel pink cardigan was fastened with tiny pearl buttons over a light floral dress with ruffles at the hem. White tights with delicate lace trim covered her legs, and shiny pink patent leather Mary Jane shoes gleamed under the warm lamplight. A colorful bow headband with playful polka dots sat neatly in her styled hair. Around her wrist dangled a bracelet of pastel beads, and at her neck, a strand of pearls hung loosely.

Julie’s brain stuttered.

“Who… who are you?” she asked, her hand still on the doorknob.

The woman looked up, smiling warmly. “It’s me, sweetheart. Jackson.”

Julie’s stomach dropped. “What?”

“Jackson,” the woman repeated, as if clarifying the obvious. “Your husband. Remember?”

Julie almost laughed---almost. She had, in recent months, wished her 23-year-old, six-foot husband would start acting more maturely, but this… this was beyond comprehension. “No. Jackson’s tall, young, and a man. You’re…” She gestured helplessly. “…none of those things.”

The woman gave a polite chuckle, tilting her head just so, in a way that felt more grandmotherly than anything Jackson had ever done. “Julie, you’re being silly. Of course I’m your husband.”