When Memories Came Back, I Stopped Loving You

After the miscarriage, my husband, a psychiatrist, erased my memory. He did it so he could take his patient, a young woman suffering from “depression,” on a therapeutic retreat. For the next three months, he and our son traveled with her, living a carefree life. When they had their fill of fun, he finally deigned to restore my memories. I was a wife and mother again. Except now, I didn’t care. I wasn’t a bother. They thought I was sulking, playing hard to get, trying to make a point. They didn’t pay it much mind. Not until they saw the post I made online. [HELP! My memory is back but my feelings aren’t. What do I do?!] [I can’t even empathize with my past self. Living under the same roof with my husband and son feels so tense and awkward now. Help!!!] … I was fast asleep, buried under the covers, when the lights flicked on with a sharp click, flooding the room with a hazy brightness. My eyes flew open. A tall figure stood by the door, his handsome face, framed by silver-rimmed glasses, was a mask of cold indifference. I blinked, my brain slowly catching up. It was my husband, Larry. His voice was steady, utterly devoid of emotion. “Why are you sleeping in the guest room?” I sat up, clutching the duvet to my chest, and forced a dry laugh. “My memory just came back. I’m still getting used to things.” “Let’s just sleep separately for a while, give me some time to adjust.” He nodded, as if it didn’t matter to him at all. “Suit yourself.” Then, as if it were an afterthought, he asked, “You didn’t call me today.” I looked at him, confused. “Call you about what? I didn’t need anything from you today. Why would I call?” The temperature in the room seemed to drop. “Before, if I came home after ten, you’d blow up my phone.” I cringed, the memory of my old behavior making my toes curl in embarrassment. “Sorry,” I mumbled. “It won’t happen again.” Looking back on those memories was like being a professional and stumbling upon your cringey high school social media page. The secondhand embarrassment was physically painful. The whole reason he’d hypnotized me in the first place was because I had called his patient at midnight. I had screamed at Serena, calling her a slut, accusing her of faking depression to seduce other women’s husbands. I told her if she was really sick, she should be taking medication, not stripping naked in a man’s bed. My tirade had left Serena sobbing. When Larry took the phone, his voice was as calm as ever, simply telling me he’d be home soon. I had been smug, thinking I’d scared off the homewrecker. But when Larry came home, he told me something else entirely. “I’m taking Serena to a cabin in the mountains for three months. Getting close to nature is part of her therapy.” Our son, Bobby, who was standing nearby, jumped up and down excitedly. “Me too, I wanna go! Serena gave me candy last time! I want to go with her!” I couldn’t believe it. “What about our anniversary trip? I’ve been planning it for two weeks. We were supposed to go as soon as Bobby was on vacation.” “We’re not going. Serena’s condition is serious. I need to be there for her treatment.” “I want to go to the mountains! I don’t want to go on a boring trip with Mom. I like Serena better anyway.” Of course, I refused. I screamed, I fought, I became hysterical. Larry shoved me away impatiently. Bobby rammed his head into me, pushing me back. A sharp, searing pain shot through me. A gush of warm, sticky blood pooled beneath me. I lost the baby we had been trying for for six months. And he, afraid I would cause more trouble, used a risky, experimental hypnotic procedure to erase my memory and left me in the hospital. “I promise,” I said, my voice firm, “I will never bother you with pointless calls again.” Larry’s expression only darkened. After a long moment, he stated with cold certainty, “Claire, you’re just sulking.” He turned to leave, tossing one last comment over his shoulder. “Throw your tantrum if you must. Just remember to tidy up my study.” I opened my mouth to say something, then closed it. Instead, I picked up my phone, yawning as I started searching for a good housekeeper. I couldn’t do it. I really couldn’t. I had to admire my past self. Waking up at six every morning to prepare a special breakfast for my son with his minefield of allergies. At seven, making a separate meal for Larry’s sensitive stomach. After grabbing a quick bite for myself, I’d start cleaning the entire house. Larry was a neat freak and couldn’t stand a speck of dust. His study, in particular, had to be immaculate. I had tried to replicate my old routine today and nearly passed out from exhaustion. I’d just shoved the files in his study into random drawers, which was probably why he’d made a point to remind me. I drifted off to sleep, but what felt like minutes later, a loud banging on the door jolted me awake. “Are you going to get up and make breakfast or not? I’m going to be late for school!” It was Bobby, yelling impatiently from the hallway. Time for breakfast. Good thing I was prepared. “I scheduled a delivery from that café you like,” I called out. “It’ll be here soon.” I rolled over and fell back asleep, vaguely hearing Bobby kick the door in frustration. “Dad never should have brought you back. Serena always makes me breakfast. You’re useless.” I was ripped from sleep again when Larry violently pulled me out of bed. “What did you feed Bobby!” I stared at him, completely bewildered. He dragged me to where Bobby stood, covered in red hives and struggling to breathe. “Even if you’re angry, you don’t take it out on our son! He has severe allergies. If I hadn’t found him when I did, he could have suffocated.” An ambulance rushed our son to the hospital. I ran after them, trying to explain. “I honestly don’t know what happened. I sent the café a list of his allergies when I ordered, I double-checked with them, and they promised they’d be careful. I never thought he’d still have a reaction.” Larry shot me a look of pure disgust. “Stop making things up. You’re the one who drove away the two nutritionists I hired. You’re the one who obsessively controls his diet. He said a few nice things about Serena because you suffocate him, and this is how you punish him.” “No, that’s not it, it’s because—” “Save it. Don’t make me regret giving you your memory back.” His icy words cut me off. I controlled Bobby’s diet because his body was incredibly sensitive. He was allergic to almost everything. And those two nutritionists? They quit after less than a week because they said dealing with his dietary restrictions was too much of a hassle. Whatever. It was too complicated to explain. Once the new housekeeper arrived, none of this would be my problem anymore. The doctor said it was a mild reaction to honey. Not a big deal. One IV drip and he’d be fine. I called the café. The manager explained that the honey sticks were a free promotional item, packaged separately and clearly labeled with an allergen warning. So, Bobby must have snuck it. He always had a sweet tooth, but he was allergic to honey, chocolate, and so many other things. The old me would have been watching him like a hawk. The new me… didn’t. And this was the result. “Claire!” I turned to tell Larry what I’d learned, but a small, warm body suddenly latched onto my legs. “Cece? What are you doing at the hospital?” I broke into a smile, crouching down to hug the little girl. She had been my friend during my amnesia. In the hospital, I had been lost and terrified, a huge, hollow emptiness where my heart should have been. I wandered through the days in a fog, a rudderless ship tossed in a storm, with no idea what to do. I didn’t even remember basic things. It was Cece who, like a patient teacher with a kindergartener, taught me everything again. She stayed with me, her presence a small, bright light in that cold, sterile place. “She got a little too ambitious on the swings and fell, bumped her head. Just getting it checked out,” a man’s voice said. It was Cece’s uncle, Alex. His eyes lit up when he saw me, a genuine warmth spreading across his face. “Oh no! Are you okay? Does it hurt?” I fussed over Cece, gently touching her head. She hugged me tight, rubbing her cheek against mine. “I’m okay, Auntie Claire. I just missed you so much.” “I missed you too, sweetie.” Alex watched us, his handsome face etched with concern. “What about you? What are you doing here? Is everything alright?” “I’m fine. It’s my son, he had an allergic reaction.” “Oh, good.” He breathed a sigh of relief, then immediately backtracked. “Uh… I didn’t mean it like that—I mean, is your son okay?” I couldn’t help but laugh. “He’s fine. Just needs some medicine.” He was about to say something else when Larry’s voice, laced with anger, cut through the air. “Claire—” I turned. His gaze shifted from Alex to me, my smile seeming to irritate him. He frowned. “Bobby is crying.” I quickly looked over at my son. The swelling on his face had gone down, but tears were streaming from his eyes, probably from the discomfort of the allergic reaction. He pointed a trembling finger at Cece, his voice choked with anger and hurt. “Who is she?” “This is Cece. She kept me company when I was in the hospital.” “Don’t cry now,” I said softly. “The tears will make your face itch. Besides, you’re the big brother. You have to set a good example for her.” For some reason, that only made him angrier. He started screaming, thrashing around. “She is not my sister! Go away! I don’t want you here!” He had never liked me much, and this wasn’t the first time he’d told me to leave. I saw the blood backing up into his IV line from his agitation and quickly stepped out of the room. I didn’t see his little face crumple as he started to cry even harder. After offering a significant amount of extra money, I finally found a housekeeper willing to come for a trial run. I gave them a heads-up. “I’ve hired someone. She’s coming over this afternoon. I’d like you both to be here to see if she’s a good fit.” Bobby, who had been uncharacteristically quiet since the hospital incident, spoke up in a small voice. “Mom… I thought… you didn’t like having other people in the house.”