My husband, Scott, suffered from selective amnesia. Conveniently, he only ever managed to forget the things I said. On our third wedding anniversary, after placing the final dish on the dining table, I leaned in and whispered softly to him, "My stomach’s been acting up again. I made an appointment for an endoscopy tomorrow morning. Could you drive me?" He looked up at me, his eyes blank and bewildered. "Huh? What did you just say?" Beside him sat his childhood best friend, Taryn. She let out a small, quiet laugh that sounded entirely like a deliberate provocation. She cleared her throat with an exaggerated cough. "Oh gosh, I think I’m coming down with something." Scott instantly turned to her, his posture tight with concern. "A cold? Did you kick off your blankets again last night?" Then, as if suddenly remembering my presence, he turned back to me with a look of practiced remorse. "I’m so sorry, Cassie. You know how my brain is. I just can’t seem to retain anything you tell me." I didn't say a word. I simply stood up and quietly left the table. The next morning, I went to the hospital alone. The diagnosis wasn't a stomach issue. It was a threatened miscarriage. Sitting on the cold paper of the examination table, I dialed Scott’s number. "The doctor says I might lose the baby." His voice came through the line, smooth and effortless as always. "Huh? What did you just say?" Before I could answer, Taryn’s giggles echoed from his end of the line. He hadn't bothered to mute the call. "Shut up, that's hilarious," Taryn was saying, her voice dripping with amusement. "Is she seriously making up stories now just to get your attention?" "I swear," she added with a snicker, "I bet she’ll go her whole life without realizing this is all just a game." … Then came Scott’s voice, warm and laced with quiet amusement. "It really is the perfect excuse. Remember when her mom was in the hospital? I took you to Disneyland for the weekend, came home, told her my amnesia flared up and I forgot, and she didn't even get mad." Taryn couldn't stop laughing. "Next time she has her period, hand her a glass of ice water and tell her you forgot! God, I would pay to see the look on her face. Hahaha!" I gripped the phone, a bone-deep chill spreading through my chest until my whole body went numb. A game? Shortly after we got married, Scott told me he was diagnosed with intermittent amnesia. He would forget things I told him, forget my birthday, forget my severe seafood allergy. We visited countless specialists across the state, but none of the scans showed any structural damage. The head of his department at the hospital eventually sat me down, looking grave, and explained it was likely a rare, stress-induced psychological condition. I had been terrified. Panicked, even. I abandoned my plans for graduate school so I could stay home full-time to manage his routine, carefully curating his daily life, tracking his meals, walking on eggshells every single day. And all of it… was just a game to them? I didn't make a sound. I pulled the phone from my ear and quietly tapped the red button to end the call. A single tear slipped down my cheek and splashed onto the back of my hand. The OB-GYN quickly pulled a tissue from the box on her desk and handed it to me. "Oh, honey, don't cry just yet. A threatened miscarriage doesn't mean it's over. If you get plenty of bed rest and follow the treatment plan, there’s still a really good chance we can save the pregnancy." I stared at the doctor, forcing my lips to curve into a pale, hollow smile. "No, thank you, Doctor." "Please schedule the surgery. I don't want this child." When I stumbled out of the clinic, I had to lean against the cold hallway wall. My stomach twisted into sharp, violent cramps. To get pregnant with this child, I had spent two grueling years suffering through medical intervention. My stomach had been bruised black and blue from daily hormone injections. I had swallowed bitter herbal concoctions until my taste buds went numb, spending half my mornings hunched over the toilet bowl dry-heaving. The fertility treatments destroyed my immune system. I suffered from chronic stomach pain and nighttime migraines that kept me awake for hours. On so many late, dark nights, I had curled into a tight ball on the mattress, tears soaking the pillow. I used to shake Scott awake, gasping, "My head hurts so bad… Could you please just get me a glass of warm water?" He would simply roll over, turning his back to me, his voice heavy with sleep. "What did you just say?" His amnesia was acting up again. Every time he had one of his "episodes," he wouldn't just forget my words—he would become impossibly short-tempered. I would grab his arm, sobbing, begging him through the pain. "I’m suffering so much… I just asked if you could get me some water…" He would yank his arm out of my grip and pull the comforter over his head. When the sound of my weeping finally became too loud to ignore, he would sit up, glaring at me with utter annoyance. "Can’t you be a little more mature?" he would snap. "The doctor specifically said you need to keep your stress levels low while trying to conceive! You throwing these hysterical fits every night—who do you think is going to suffer if it affects the baby?" "You know I have a condition! If you keep keeping me awake and my health gets worse, who do you think is going to end up taking care of me?" Back then, I swallowed the agony. I endured it all for the sake of the baby, and for him. And to think, from beginning to end, it was nothing more than an inside joke. Since he chose to forget, then there was no longer any need for me to speak. I opened my phone and sent a short text to my former university advisor: [Dr. Bowen, is that East African field research position still available? If so, I’d like to accept.] By the time the procedure was over, evening had fallen. I unlocked the front door and stepped inside. Laughter and loud chatter spilled out from the living room. Scott and Taryn’s entire circle of friends were gathered in our house. They had all gone to middle school together and had been an impenetrable clique for over a decade. Years ago, when Scott’s "doctor" suggested he spend more time around familiar faces to help stimulate his memory, I made them feel as welcome as possible. To support his recovery, I let them turn our carefully decorated home into their personal clubhouse, coming and going as they pleased. At the sound of the front door closing, every head turned toward me. A series of knowing, shared glances passed between them. Taryn intentionally cleared her throat, letting out a bright, sugary laugh. "Speaking of which, Scott and Cassie have been married for three years now, haven't they? Since someone’s amnesia never seems to get any better, why don't I help jog your memory a bit?" Scott popped a mandarin orange segment into her mouth. "Jog my memory about what?" "About how ridiculously sweet you used to be to her!" Taryn covered her mouth, giggling. "Back in the day, you were so eager. You used to drive across town every single evening just to pick her up from work, and you’d wait in line for half an hour at that bakery just to buy her those hot almond pastries." Scott looked at Taryn, his expression morphing into blank confusion. "Huh? What did you just say?" The game had started again. Taryn widened her eyes in exaggerated disbelief. "No way! You seriously don't remember any of that?" He shook his head slowly, looking utterly baffled. "Not a clue. Did I really do shit like that for her? Man, I must have been so pathetic." I stood at the threshold of the entryway, watching him. A tight, suffocating knot pulled tight around my chest. To think that the love and thoughtfulness he had once shown me—the genuine effort he had put into our early days—was now casually dismissed by his own mouth as a embarrassing joke. His friends finally finished laughing before one of them called out to me lazily. "Hey, Cassie, you’re finally back! Where’s the takeout Scott asked you to pick up?" "Yeah, where are my street tacos?" another chimed in. "Did you get the sourdough from that bakery downtown? You didn't forget, right?" I stood there, silent. I thought back to how I used to view these people. I thought they were coming over out of genuine concern for Scott’s health. I had tried so hard to win their approval, bending over backward to do whatever they asked. I had noticed it before, of course—how Scott’s amnesia only ever seemed to strike when he was dealing with me. When Taryn had a mild cold, Scott would remember to remind her to wear a scarf a whole month later. When his buddies wanted specific favors, he never once forgot. So why was it that when I was hospitalized with severe pneumonia, he couldn't even remember my room number? When I had asked him about it back then, he had looked at me with eyes so full of guilt and sorrow, whispering, "Cassie, I’m so sorry. I’m trying so hard to get better. Please don't give up on me." Later, as if to prove to me that his condition was unpredictable, he started playing out his "episodes" in front of his friends, too. I remembered one afternoon while I was chopping vegetables in the kitchen, listening to the chatter from the living room. "Honestly, I don't get what Scott sees in her," one of his friends had sneered. "She’s so bland and overly sensitive. Always walking around with a long face like some tragic martyr." "Right? And zero sense of style," another added. "That dress she wore to the dinner last week looked like something out of a thrift bargain bin." Scott had just sat there, smiling casually, saying nothing. Only when he noticed his friends looking at him expecting a response did he slowly blink and ask, "Huh? What did you guys just say?" He "forgot" those insults, too. He conveniently "couldn't hear" them belittling his wife. It was all a game. A game crafted specifically to isolate me, humiliate me, and mock my presence. "Hey, Cassie! I’m talking to you, did you hear me?" a guy named Chad yelled out, his voice sharp and aggressive. "Where’s the beer we asked for? Why are you standing there empty-handed?" I lowered my head numbly and pulled out my phone. Scott had indeed sent me a text two hours ago—a laundry list of errands and food orders. At that exact moment, I had been lying on an operating table, feeling the quiet, agonizing void as a three-month-old life was surgically scraped from inside my body. "I didn't see the message," I said softly. Scott’s face darkened instantly. "You didn't see it?" "You carry your phone around like a prop! Everyone’s been sitting here starving, waiting on you for hours, and all you have to say is ‘I didn't see it’? Can you do "anything" right?" Right on cue, Taryn pressed a hand to her chest, letting out a sharp, dramatic gasp as if she were about to faint. Scott panicked immediately, leaning over her. "Taryn? What’s wrong?" "It’s nothing…" she murmured weakly. "I think… I think my blood sugar just dropped because I haven't eaten in so long…" Scott’s expression hardened with panic. He stood up, marched over to the dining room sideboard, and pulled out a decorative gift box from the bottom shelf. It was a box of artisanal, hand-crafted nougat—a specialty gift my former professor had brought back for me, something I had been saving for a special occasion. Instinctively, I took a step forward. "Please don't open that." "It was a gift from my advisor. I have regular fruit candies in my purse—" "What does it matter who gave it to you?" He glared at me, his voice sharp with hostility. "Because you couldn't be bothered to pick up food, Taryn is practically passing out! Severe low blood sugar can be dangerous, don't you know that?" He tore open the packaging without hesitation, unwrapped a piece of candy, and delicately fed it to Taryn’s mouth. I stood frozen, watching him. Dangerous? So he "did" know that low blood sugar could be dangerous. Yet, during the months I was taking aggressive fertility medication, my stomach was so torn up that I couldn't keep food down for days. One night, I woke up drenched in a cold sweat, shaking violently from severe hypoglycemia, sobbing as I begged him to go to the kitchen and grab me a piece of candy. What had he done back then? His amnesia had conveniently flared up. He had squinted at me through half-lidded eyes in the dark, murmuring, "What did you just say?" I watched as the decorative box was ripped apart, the friends laughing as they passed my specialty candy around like party favors. Taryn looked up at me, her eyes wide with innocent distress. "Cassie, please don't be mad at me. My blood sugar really dropped, I didn't mean to take your candy… I’ll buy you another box to make it up to you, okay?" Scott patted her head gently. "Why are you explaining anything to her? Her heart is the size of a needle’s eye." His friends chimed in with easy agreement. "Seriously, Cassie, you’re being way too petty. It’s just a box of candy, how much could it possibly cost? It doesn't even taste that good anyway." "Taryn isn't feeling well, and as the host, you don't show an ounce of care." "Scott, you really need to get your wife under control. That sour face of hers is an absolute buzzkill." Feeling his authority challenged in front of his peers, Scott cleared his throat with a stiff frown. "Alright, that’s enough. She’s pregnant, so her mood is unpredictable. Don't hold it against her." He turned to the guys. "Give me a minute, fellas. I’ll drive her out to grab some food, and then we’ll come back and drink properly." Without waiting for my response, he grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the door. A dull, tearing pain throbbed in my lower abdomen. I stumbled from the sudden movement, but he roughly shoved me into the passenger seat anyway. As he slammed the car into drive and yanked the steering wheel, he began a relentless tirade: "Cassie, are you trying to humiliate me on purpose?" "Taryn and the guys come over to help me work through my condition! Would it have killed you to pick up a few errands?" "Those are my closest friends. You married me—is showing a little basic hospitality to my friends really that much to ask?" I kept my eyes fixed on the dark road ahead, saying nothing. He really was deeply committed to this game of his. I knew why he was acting like this. Within his social circle, Scott occupied the very bottom of the food chain. Taryn was the golden center—wealthy, attractive, and surrounded by people constantly vying for her attention. The rest of the guys all came from prominent, well-off families. Scott was the only one who had tagged along behind them since middle school, accustomed to playing the desperate court jester just to stay included. Deep down, he was consumed by an overwhelming insecurity. And to curry favor with them—to prove to them that he was a man of importance—he established his dominance by mistreating me. He wanted to parade me in front of them: "Look, my wife obeys my every command. I hold absolute authority in my house." "Say something! Are you mute?" Scott yelled, slamming his hand against the steering wheel when I remained silent. "Where the hell were you all afternoon anyway?" I took a quiet breath. "I had surgery today." He hit the brakes at a red light, his brow furrowing. "Surgery? You mean the endoscopy?" "God, stop being so theatrical. Taryn had an endoscopy last year and she didn't throw a dramatic fit over it." I turned my head to look at him. "You remembered?" He froze for a fraction of a second, realizing he had slipped up. But his ego quickly took over, and he sneered defensively. "Yeah, I remembered. That’s how my condition works. Besides, isn't it a good thing that I remembered? It means my brain is actually recovering." I looked away and didn't utter another word. The day Taryn had her endoscopy was my birthday. He had forgotten my birthday entirely to stay by her bedside for twenty-four hours straight. When he finally came home, he had used that same remorseful look to tell me he couldn't remember. I followed him quietly through the grocery store as he picked up takeout and snacks. When we reached the apartment building lobby, I instinctively reached out to take one of the heavy bags from his hands. Scott pulled his arm back. "Forget it. You’re pregnant, don't go lifting stuff. I’ve got it." Hearing those words, an overwhelming sense of irony washed over me. I suppose that was the single crumb of pity he had left for me—or rather, for the child he thought I was carrying. When he pushed open the apartment door, the living room was thick with a haze of cigarette smoke, empty beer cans littering the rug. Seeing us return, Chad immediately raised his voice. "Hey! Drinking on an empty stomach is boring. We want homemade dumplings!" Scott grinned easily. "No problem. Cassie can whip some up." He turned to me, his tone commanding. "Go on into the kitchen. Make a few different fillings—make sure to do a separate batch of shrimp ones for Taryn, she loves those." I walked into the kitchen without arguing. The local anesthesia from the procedure had completely worn off. A sharp, twisting pain radiated through my lower belly, sending cold sweat dripping down my back. I gripped the chef’s knife, forcing myself to chop the vegetables, but my vision began to blur into dark spots. "Thump." The blade slipped, slicing deep into my left index finger. Crimson blood surged out instantly, dripping onto the wooden cutting board. I stared at the wound in a dull daze. Strange. I didn't feel any pain in my finger at all. Perhaps when a person is hurting badly enough somewhere else, a minor cut no longer registers. I stepped out of the kitchen, intending to grab a bandage from the hallway cabinet. But as soon as Taryn saw the blood on my hand, she suddenly let out a sharp, dramatic squeal. "Ouch! That hurts!" Scott rushed to her side first, taking her hand in his with frantic concern. "What happened? Did you get a splinter?" He looked down at her faintly pink fingertips with immense heart-wrenching worry, then whirled around and screamed at me: "Cassie! When you brought out the wooden chopsticks earlier, couldn't you have rubbed them down first to smooth out the splinters?" "Taryn has delicate skin! She’s not built coarse and tough like you!" Only after he finished shouting did his eyes finally land on my blood-soaked hand. His brows pulled together in deep irritation. "Why are you so uselessly clumsy? How do you manage to slice your hand wide open just chopping vegetables?" "Go clean it up right now. Don't get blood in the dumpling filling—how is anyone supposed to eat that?" I stared at him. His attention had already returned to Taryn’s finger. The rest of the group crowded around her, some offering tissues, others blowing gently on her hand to soothe her. I pulled out a small bandage, wrapped it tightly around my finger, and turned back into the kitchen. They ate the meal with loud, boisterous delight. After dinner, they lounged across our couch. Someone casually suggested, "Now that we’re full, Scott, how about we help you jog a few more memories from the past?" Taryn giggled softly. "Oh, I love this! Who’s going first?" Chad glanced at me, deliberately raising his voice so it echoed across the room. "I’ll go!" "Scott probably doesn't know this, but a while back, I saw some explicit videos online that looked just like his wife." "You know why she was willing to marry you despite your brain issues, Scott? Because she was out sleeping around, and a dumbass like you wouldn't even know the difference!" Laughter erupted around the room, growing louder and more unrestrained as they all turned to look at Scott. This game had likely started as a private joke between Scott and Taryn to mock me. But over time, the group had discovered a far more malicious way to play. Under the rules of the game, Scott had amnesia. That gave them the perfect cover to hurl cruel, degrading insults at me under the guise of "helping him recover." If I cried or got angry, they would laugh it off, calling me overly sensitive, reminding me that the "doctor" said aggressive stimulation therapy was good for Scott’s brain. Back then, because Scott was a medical professional himself, I had never doubted them. I had forced myself to swallow the humiliation, plastering on a fake smile to play along. But I wasn't going to swallow it anymore. I stood up, my voice entirely flat. "I’m not feeling well. I’m going to sleep. You guys can keep helping him remember." Seeing that I refused to play my part, Chad slammed his hand onto the coffee table. "Go to sleep? Everyone’s having a good time, who are you giving attitude to?" "Don't think just because you’re pregnant we all have to bow down to you. Unless you’re planning on popping out a kid for every single one of us here, shut up and sit down! Hahaha!" Feeling his authority challenged in front of his friends, Scott joined in, barking at me: "Cassie, did you take the wrong meds today? Sit back down!" "You’re three months along, well past the delicate stage! I’m the doctor here, don't you think I know what’s safe?" I looked at the face of the man I had once loved with everything I had. Without a word, I reached into my bag, pulled out the official hospital discharge summary and surgical consent form, and laid it flat on the glass coffee table. Under the stunned glares of the room, I kept my eyes locked on Scott. "The baby is gone." "When I said I had surgery today, I meant an abortion." "Scott, I want a divorce."
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