My wife has intermittent amnesia. At least, that was the story. On our third wedding anniversary, I set the final dish down on the dining table and sat across from her. "My chest has been feeling tight lately," I said softly, watching her face. "I want to get it checked out at the clinic tomorrow. Will you come with me?" Nicole looked up, blinking with mild confusion as she tilted her head. "Huh? What did you just say?" Beside her, Cody—her childhood best friend who lived three doors down and practically moved into our apartment—smirked, taking a slow sip of his wine. He let out a theatrical, dry cough. "Man, I think I'm coming down with a fever." In an instant, Nicole’s confused haze evaporated. She turned toward Cody, her hands fluttering over his forehead with sharp concern. "A fever? Did you stay up all night playing video games again? I told you to stop doing that." Then, as if suddenly remembering my presence, she glanced back at me, offering a well-practiced, remorseful sigh. "I'm so sorry, Sam. You know how my memory just... slips. What were you saying?" I said nothing. I quietly pushed my chair back and left the table. The next morning, I went to the hospital alone. The diagnosis was straightforward: acute, severe anemia brought on by chronic physical exhaustion and long-term systemic stress. Panic surged through me. "That can't be right, doctor. My wife is sick—she has a rare neurological condition. I'm supposed to donate bone marrow to her in a few weeks." The doctor shook his head, looking at my charts with grave concern. "In your current state, a bone marrow harvest would put you in intensive care. Your body is running on empty. You are in no condition for any kind of surgery." Sick with worry, I stepped into the noisy hallway and dialed Nicole's phone to explain the situation. The line picked up, but the background noise was deafening—clinking glasses, background chatter, and loud music. "Huh? Sam?" Nicole’s voice sounded muffled. "What did you say? It's so loud in here—" She didn't hang up. She simply pulled the phone away from her ear, forgetting to end the call. Through the receiver, Cody's sharp, triumphant laughter bled clearly into my ear. "God, that's hilarious!" Cody wheezed. "Sam actually thinks you losing your train of thought is a real medical disorder! He buys it every single time!" "So, is the bone marrow thing locked in?" Cody continued, his tone shifting to greedy excitement. "The patient in my department's ward is filthy rich. He promised me fifty grand under the table if I secure a matching donor for him!" … Nicole's voice came through next, light and amused. "Relax, Cody. Sam will do anything for me. I'll just tell him the marrow transplant is the only breakthrough cure for my amnesia. He won't ask questions. He'll hand it right over to your department." Cody chuckled. "Isn't that a little cold, Nico?" "It's just bone marrow. It's not like he's going to die," she replied carelessly. "Your medical residency and your career are way more important than his discomfort. Besides, he's my husband. Isn't he supposed to make sacrifices for me?" "And honestly, this whole amnesia game is a lifesaver," she added with a giggle. "Remember when his mom was in the hospital and I went to Cabo with you instead? When I got back, I just pulled the 'I don't remember you telling me' card, and he didn't even yell at me." Standing in the sterile hospital corridor, the phone pressed hard against my ear, my blood turned to ice. A game? A game. Shortly after we got married, Nicole came to me in tears, claiming she had been diagnosed with an atypical form of intermittent amnesia. She would forget my words, my birthday, and my severe shellfish allergy. We visited top specialists across the state, but brain scans yielded no answers. Then her college classmate—a neurology resident—sat me down with a grim face and explained it was an ultra-rare, untreatable neurological phenomenon. Panic-stricken, I turned down a prestigious overseas fellowship program I had spent four years earning. I stayed local, taking on grueling freelance tech contracts to pay her medical bills while cooking three tailored meals a day to keep her stress low. And it was all a cruel, coordinated joke. I didn't make a sound. I silently ended the call. I leaned my back against the cold tiled wall as the hospital ceiling whirled above me. Vertigo washed over me in sickening waves. To afford her treatments, I had worked myself into the ground. Two solid years without a single weekend off, pulling eighty-hour workweeks, drinking black coffee like water until my hands trembled and my heart fluttered erratically in my chest. Frequent fainting spells. Chronic, blinding migraines that kept me awake for nights on end. When she told me three months ago that a bone marrow transplant might finally reset her neural pathways, I seized on it like a drowning man grasping at a lifeline. I scraped together every penny I earned. I remembered nights curling into a tight ball on our bed, my head throbbing as if gripped by a vise. I'd gently shake her shoulder: "Nico... my head hurts so bad. Could you please get me a glass of warm water?" She'd roll over, turning her back to me, her tone heavy with sleepy irritation: "Huh? What did you just say?" Her "amnesia" flared up whenever I was weak. And with it came a quick, razor-sharp temper. I had reached out to touch her arm: "Please... just a glass of water..." She shoved my hand away, pulling the comforter over her head. As I whimpered in pain, she sat up, glaring down at me with cold disgust: "You're a grown man, Sam! Can you stop being so pathetic and dramatic? Don't you know I'm sick? If I don't get sleep, my condition gets worse! Do you want me to end up in an asylum?" I had bitten my lip until it bled, swallowing the pain. I endured it all—for her, for our future, for our home. And from start to finish, it was nothing more than an elaborate scam. If she chose to pretend she couldn't hear me, then I had nothing left to say. I opened my phone and pulled up a text thread with my former boss, Victor. "Is that co-founder position in your tech startup still open?" ... That evening, I pushed open the front door of our apartment. Laughter filled the living room. Nicole and Cody were surrounded by their old middle-school clique. They had been an insular, tight-knit group for over fifteen years. Back when her "neurologist friend" advised us that being around familiar childhood friends would stimulate her memory retention, I willingly welcomed them into our home. They turned my meticulously decorated place into their personal lounge, treating our living room like a mid-tier motel. As the door shut, the conversation died. They all turned to look at me, exchanging silent, knowing glances. Cody cleared his throat with a playful smirk: "Speaking of which, Nico and Sam have been married three full years now. Since somebody's memory keeps failing her, why don't I help you two take a trip down memory lane?" Nicole popped a potato chip into Cody's open mouth. "Remind me of what?" "Remind you of how obsessed you used to be with him!" Cody laughed behind his hand. "Remember how eager you were back in college? Waiting outside his lab after work every night? You even dropped a month's salary to buy him that high-end graphics card!" Nicole tilted her head, looking at Cody with exaggerated confusion: "Huh? What are you talking about?" The game began again. Cody widens his eyes: "No way. You don't remember that?" She shook her head, looking bewildered: "Not at all. Did I really do something like that? Was I actually that desperate?" I stood in the doorway, staring at her as a tight, suffocating pain gripped my chest. The quiet tenderness and affection she once showed me—moments I had cherished as the foundation of our marriage—were now re-framed in front of her friends as a humiliating, pathetic disgrace. Her friends erupted into laughter. Once the giggles subsided, one of them called out to me: "Hey Sam, you're finally back! Where's the gourmet roasted chicken Nicole told you to pick up?" "Where's my takeout barbecue?" "You didn't forget the ten artisanal iced lattes from that downtown cafe, did you?" I stood motionless. I recalled how, in the past, I genuinely believed these friends were visiting to support her recovery. I had bent over backward to cater to their demands, playing the dutiful host, eager to please. Yet, deep down, the signs had always been there. Nicole's "amnesia" only flared up when it involved me. When Cody caught a mild cold, she remembered a month later to text him about wearing extra layers. She never forgot a single item her friends asked for. So why was it that when I was hospitalized with severe pneumonia last year, she couldn't even remember my room number? When I used to ask her, she would look at me with eyes swimming with tragic remorse, whispering: "I'm so sorry, Sam. I'm trying so hard to get better. Please don't give up on me." Later, as if to prove her condition was impartial, she began staging her "flare-ups" in front of her friends. I remembered washing dishes in the kitchen one evening while her friends sat in the living room: "God, I still don't get what Nicole sees in him. He's such a dull wallflower." "Right? Total killjoy. Always sitting there with that stiff, serious face like the world owes him money." "And his style is tragic. That jacket he wore to the party looked like a thrift store donation." Nicole had sat there, smiling passively. Only when she noticed her friends looking at her did she drawl softly: "Huh? What did you guys just say?" She couldn't "remember" them mocking her husband, either. Because it was all a game. A systematic, cruel game designed to isolate, humiliate, and mock me. "Hey! Sam! Are you deaf?" a woman named Kelsey snapped, raising her voice from the couch. "Where are our drinks? Why did you walk in empty-handed?" I pulled out my phone without emotion. Two hours ago, Nicole had sent a laundry list of errands. At that exact time, I was sitting with a trusted friend in hospital administration, verifying her medical records. My friend had confirmed what I already suspected: there was no record of any such neurological disorder. And certainly no medical basis for a bone marrow transplant. "I didn't see the text," I said quietly. Nicole's expression instantly darkened: "Didn't see it?" "Is your phone just a useless paperweight? My friends have been waiting here starving for hours, and all you have to say is 'I didn't see it'? Why can't you get a single simple task right?" Cody clutched his chest at that exact moment, slumping dramatically against the sofa cushion. "Oh man..." Nicole's eyes widened with instant panic: "Cody! What's wrong?" He spoke in a weak, breathy voice: "It's fine... just haven't eaten in a while. My blood sugar is crashing..." Nicole snapped into action. She leaped up, marched over to the pantry cabinet, and reached for a wooden box on the top shelf. It was a box of specialty smoked prosciutto my father had cured and shipped from our family farm back home—a gift I had been saving for a special occasion. Instinctively, I stepped forward: "Please don't open that." "My dad sent that from home. I have a box of unopened crackers in my bag—" "Who cares where it came from?" She glared at me with sharp venom. "Because you failed to bring food back, Cody is having a hypoglycemic attack! Do you know how dangerous that is?" She tore open the decorative packaging, sliced the cured meat roughly on the counter, and set the plate in front of Cody. I stood anchored to the floor, watching her. Low blood sugar can be dangerous? So she "did" know. Yet when I worked three consecutive days on less than ten hours of total sleep, shivering and covered in cold sweat from severe hypoglycemia at three in the morning, begging her to bring me a piece of candy from the kitchen—what did she do? She had an "amnesia flare-up." "What did you just say?" she had mumbled, rolling away. I watched her friends laugh and dig into my father's gift. Cody offered me an apologetic look through a mouthful of meat: "Hey man, don't be mad. My blood sugar really tanked. I didn't mean to eat your stuff... I'll buy you another box to replace it." Nicole affectionately patted Cody's head: "Why are you apologizing to him? His heart is smaller than a pinhole." Her friends chimed in: "Seriously, Sam, you're a grown man. Don't be so stingy over a piece of meat. It doesn't even taste that great anyway." "Cody isn't feeling well. As the host, you should show some basic sympathy." "Nicole, you really need to put your husband in check. That sour face of his ruins the whole room." Feeling her social standing threatened, Nicole cleared her throat, trying to regain control: "Alright, alright. He's been stressed with work lately, don't pay him any mind." "Just wait here, guys. I'll take him out to grab food, and we'll be right back." She grabbed my arm with a harsh, unyielding grip and dragged me toward the front door. A sharp ache shot through my lower back, making me stumble, but she yanked me out into the hallway without looking back. In the car, Nicole gripped the steering wheel, her mouth moving in a relentless stream of scolding: "Sam, are you trying to humiliate me on purpose?" "Cody and the group come over here to help me heal! Would it kill you to run a simple errand for them?" "They're my friends! You married me—is showing them basic hospitality really that much to ask?" I remained silent, looking out the passenger window. She really played this game with absolute commitment. I knew exactly why she acted this way. Within her social circle, Nicole had always occupied the lowest rung. Cody was the undeniable sun around which everyone orbited—wealthy, handsome, effortlessly charming. The others all came from prominent, established families. Only Nicole grew up as the insecure outsider, earning her place by playing the eager clown, desperate for approval. Deep in her bones, she was terrified of being cast aside. And to impress them, to prove she was someone of importance, she used me as her footstool. She displayed me to them like a well-trained pet: "Look, my husband obeys my every command. I am the absolute authority in my house." "Say something! Are you deaf now?" Nicole barks, slamming her palm against the steering wheel. "Where were you earlier today, anyway?" I took a slow, quiet breath: "I went to the hospital today." She cut me off before I could finish: "Oh, because of your little chest tightness?" "Can you stop being so fragile? Cody actually suffers from cardiac arrhythmias, and he doesn't whine like he's on his deathbed." I turned my head to look at her: "You remembered that?" She froze. Her eyes flickered as she realized her slip. Yet she quickly hardened her tone: "Yeah, so what? My memory comes and goes. Isn't it a good thing I remembered? It means my brain is getting better." I lowered my head, saying nothing more. On the day Cody went for his heart checkup, it was my birthday. She had forgotten completely, spending twenty-four straight hours by his side at the clinic. When she returned home, she gave me that same mournful look, claiming she had lost track of time because of her condition. I followed her into the night market, quietly helping her carry the bags of takeout food. At a street food stand, she suddenly stopped and bought a warm, cinnamon pretzel—the kind I used to love during our college days. She handed it to me with a soft smile: "Here. Don't be mad anymore." "I bought this just for you. I won't give them a piece." Looking at the pretzel in my hand, a wave of profound bitterness washed over me. This pathetic crumb of affection was likely the last remaining shred of tenderness she had left for me—and for our entire marriage. When we pushed open the front door, the apartment was thick with cigarette smoke, empty beer cans rolling across the hardwood floor. Kelsey looked up from the couch and immediately complained: "Ugh, takeout without real comfort food is boring! We want homemade ravioli from scratch!" Nicole smiled warmly: "No problem. Sam will make it." She turned to me, her voice casual and commanding: "Go on, head to the kitchen. Roll out some dough and make a few different fillings—Cody likes the shrimp and ricotta mixture, so make a separate batch for him." I walked into the kitchen without a word. My body was hollowed out, weak from lack of food, my muscles aching with a low throbbing. Cold sweat slicked my back. I forced myself to chop the herbs and vegetables for the pasta fillings, but my vision suddenly blurred. The heavy chef's knife slipped, slicing deep into my left index finger. Crimson blood welled up instantly, dripping onto the wooden cutting board. I stared at the stain, dazed. Strangely, I felt no pain at all. Perhaps because the ache inside me was so overwhelming that a physical cut barely registered. I stepped out of the kitchen, intending to grab a band-aid from the hallway cabinet. Cody caught sight of the blood on my hand and suddenly gasped, pulling back his own hand: "Ouch..." Nicole didn't even look at me; she rushed straight to Cody, inspecting his hand with intense worry: "What happened? Did you get a splinter?" She gazed tenderly at his slightly reddened finger, then spun around, her face twisting into rage as she screamed at me: "Sam! Are you blind? Can't you inspect the wooden kitchen utensils for splinters before setting them out?" "Cody has delicate skin! He isn't coarse and thick-skinned like you!" Only after her outburst did her glance briefly land on my dripping, blood-stained hand. Her eyebrows pulled together in deep annoyance: "Why are you so clumsy? It's just chopping herbs—how do you manage to cut yourself?" "Go wrap it up! Don't get blood in the pasta dough or the filling, or how is anyone supposed to eat?" I stood silently, watching her. Her attention had already shifted back to Cody's finger. The rest of the group crowded around them, offering tissues and blowing soft breaths onto his hand. I found a band-aid, wrapped it tightly around my finger, and returned to the kitchen. The dinner was loud and raucous. They devoured every last piece of handmade ravioli. Afterward, sprawled across the living room furniture, someone lazily suggested: "Man, I'm stuffed. Hey Nico, why don't we play another round of 'Memory Lane'?" Cody smirked: "Sounds great. Who wants to go first?" Kelsey glanced at me, her voice ringing out intentionally loud: "I will!" "You know, Nicole... the other night, I saw your husband outside a nightclub downtown." "But he wasn't there as a customer—he was selling himself!" "Want to know why he stays with you despite your illness? Because he does nasty, desperate stuff on the side to make money!" Raucous laughter exploded through the room. Every pair of eyes turned to land on Nicole, waiting for her reaction. In the beginning, this game was meant solely for Nicole and Cody to manipulate me into donating bone marrow for fifty thousand dollars. But along the way, the group had discovered a new form of entertainment. Under the guise of "amnesia therapy," they could hurl the vilest insults and cruelty at me, disguised as playful jokes. If I ever showed anger, they would laugh in my face, claiming I had no sense of humor, reminding me that the neurologist recommended "emotional stimulation" for Nicole's recovery. Back then, because Nicole was a medical professional, I swallowed every shred of humiliation, forcing a tight smile, pretending to play along. I will not endure it for another second. I stood up, my voice dead calm: "I'm not feeling well. I'm going to sleep. You can continue helping her remember." Seeing that I refused to perform, Kelsey slapped her palm on the coffee table: "Sleep? We're all having a great time! Who are you giving that attitude to?" Nicole quickly jumped in to smooth things over: "Forget it, guys. He's saving up his strength to donate bone marrow for my treatment. He needs his rest. Let him go to bed." I looked at the face of the woman I once loved with every fiber of my being. I reached into my leather bag, pulled out a crisp white diagnostic report, and laid it flat on the coffee table between the empty beer cans. Under the stunned, silent stares of the room, I looked Nicole directly in the eye: "I went to the hospital today. You are completely healthy." "You don't need my bone marrow." "Nicole, I want a divorce."
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