My husband has anterograde amnesia.

He forgot our wedding anniversary. I sat alone for six hours at the restaurant I'd booked, waiting for him.

He forgot my due date. I went into labor with no one to drive me to the hospital, and our first child died before it ever took a breath.

Every time, he drowned in guilt. I told him：

“It's not your fault. You're just sick.”

I bought sticky notes, wrote down every important date, and papered every wall in the house with them.

I even carved words into my own skin so that one look at me would remind him of everything he needed to know.

Then came an ER visit where he forgot my drug allergies. The doctor gave me penicillin, and I spent a week in the ICU.

I believed he simply couldn't hold on to anything.

Until his childhood sweetheart came back from studying abroad.

At the welcome-back dinner, someone started serving cilantro onto Emily's plate.

Irvin's hand shot out to stop them：

“Don't give her that. She doesn't eat cilantro.”

……

The whole table went quiet.

I froze.

One of his friends laughed it off：

“Irvin, after all these years you still remember Emily's little habits.”

Irvin's expression didn't change：

“Of course.”

“Emily's always been delicate. You don't stay on top of it, she ends up sick again.”

I looked at Emily.

Pale, thin — the kind of girl who looked like she'd spent half her life in a doctor's office.

Irvin flagged down a waiter and had her wine swapped for warm water at exactly 40°C.

“Her stomach can't handle anything harsh. That's the right temperature for her.”

Then he started cutting her steak into small pieces.

Then he asked for a cushion for her chair.

I watched his hands move with an ease that came from years of practice.

Something cold stirred inside me. Had Irvin's condition improved?

Before I could even feel hopeful, he placed a freshly shelled crab leg in my bowl.

The air locked in my chest.

“Irvin, I can't eat that.”

He was draping his jacket over Emily's shoulders, adjusting the thermostat in the private room. He didn't even turn around.

“What's wrong? You love seafood.”

I forced the words out：

“Did you forget? I can't have crab while I'm pregnant. It can cause a miscarriage.”

“And I'm allergic to seafood.”

Irvin froze. Slowly, he turned to face me.

Emily pointed at the small carved letters on my body, and only then did he notice.

【7 weeks pregnant — watch what I eat】

This was my second pregnancy. I was being so careful. I couldn't lose this child too.

To make sure Irvin would remember, I'd carved extra lines into my skin.

The red letters were impossible to miss.

Even Emily had noticed them. He hadn't.

I thought of the wall full of sticky notes at home, and how I'd made him read through every single one before we left this morning.

I felt like a joke.

Something squeezed around my heart, tighter and tighter, until I couldn't breathe.

I grabbed my bag and stood to leave.

Irvin caught my arm and apologized, the way he always did.

His eyes were full of guilt and remorse. Before tonight, that would have been enough. I would have forgiven him on the spot.

His friends chimed in too：

“Amber, he's had this condition for years — we've all seen it. It's not like he's doing it on purpose. Try to be understanding.”

My eyes burned.

I wanted to demand an answer. Why her? Why could he remember every little thing about Emily Hughes?

Emily stood up too.

“Amber, Irvin's my childhood sweetheart. He's been looking after me like this for twenty years — it'd be stranger if he forgot. Please don't take it to heart.”

“You came tonight to welcome me home. If I've upset you, let me make it right.”

She reached for Irvin's wine glass and raised it to her lips.

Irvin let go of me instantly and grabbed her arm to stop her.

“Your stomach can't handle alcohol! Last time you had one sip and ended up in the hospital for three days.”

He snatched the glass away, his face tight with worry.

Emily looked disappointed, but a smile lingered at the corner of her mouth.

“Come on, Amber. Emily even apologized. Are you satisfied now?”

“She just got back, and you nearly sent her to the hospital.”

“I didn't forget on purpose. You said it yourself, it's my condition.”

Irvin frowned, waiting for me to back down.

He didn't expect me to turn and walk away in silence.

He froze, then followed me out.

I slowed my steps deliberately.

Behind me, Emily let out a few soft coughs. Irvin stopped.

He hesitated, then ran back to her.

“Amber, Emily caught a chill. I need to check on her.”

“And she's due for her medication right now. She can never remember which ones to take.”

“Go home and rest.”

The last shred of hope in me died.

My phone rang.

It was the specialist from the neurological hospital.

“Ms. Pruitt, your husband's amnesia hasn't improved. In fact, it may have worsened.”

I stared at Irvin's retreating back, my head full of how perfectly he remembered every detail about Emily.

I almost laughed. I told the doctor：

“Cancel all his remaining sessions. He doesn't need treatment anymore.”

So the person he couldn't remember—it was only ever me.

More treatment wouldn't change that. It was never his illness that needed curing. I was the one who needed to leave.

The moment I stepped through the front door, the air was thick with lavender.

The doctor had said lavender calms the nerves and strengthens memory.

So every morning I got up early and went to the flower market to pick out the freshest stems to bring home.

Now the heavy sweetness only made me nauseous.

I looked around the room. Every wall was covered in sticky notes, rows and rows of them, mocking every last bit of devotion I'd poured into this marriage.

My eyes burned. I started tearing them down, one by one.

Mid-step, my foot landed on something slick. I lost my balance and went down hard, my belly hitting the floor.

Pain ripped through me, and blood began seeping between my legs.

The glass marble that had caused it was still rolling across the floor.

I'd bought those marbles for Irvin's memory exercises. I'd been in a rush that morning and hadn't put them away.

I reached for my phone, but the pain doubled me over and my hands wouldn't stop shaking.

The wall clock chimed three times.

Three o'clock. Irvin had promised to take me to the prenatal clinic.

I fixed my eyes on the door, praying he'd come through it, pick me up, and get me to the hospital.

Nothing. No sound, no movement. He'd forgotten again.

The blood on the floor had pooled into a small dark puddle.

I dragged myself forward, found my phone, and called my emergency contact. Irvin.

It rang ten times. He didn't answer.

On the eleventh try, someone finally picked up.

It was Emily's voice.

“Oh, Amber! Irvin's with me at the amusement park! He set this up three days before I even flew back!”

“I can't do the pirate ship with my heart, so he's riding it for me—he won't be off for a bit. He'll call you back later!”

Her voice was bright, giddy, half-drowned by the noise of the crowd around her.

It swallowed my faint cry for help completely.

The blood loss was pulling the world dark at the edges.

My phone rang again and I grabbed it, a surge of desperate hope.

“Ms. Pruitt, the prenatal appointment you and your husband scheduled is about to expire. Will you still be coming in today?”

My heart sank. The last of my strength was draining away with the blood.

“My baby—something's wrong. Please, send a doctor to me……”

The words left my mouth, and the world went dark.

I dreamed a long dream.

The dream pulled me back to the year we met. I fell for Irvin Henson the moment I saw him.

Everyone warned me his heart already belonged to someone else—a girl who'd left and never come back.

I didn't believe them. I went after him anyway.

I made him fall in love with me.

And he gave me everything I asked for, except he could never hold on to his memories.

At a dinner party, during a round of truth-or-dare, someone asked him what he regretted most.

His eyes went red.

“I hate that I can't remember anything about the person I love. I've put Amber through so much.”

I was so moved that I threw myself headfirst into neuroscience research.

I took him around the world to see the best specialists, tried every method there was to try.

I even got my medical license for him, self-studied my way to a neuroscience degree at the University of California.

Even if he never got better, I was willing to spend my whole life by his side.

Until the way he acted around Emily Hughes shattered everything I thought I knew.

After all those years of holding on, I finally couldn't do it anymore.

When I opened my eyes again, I saw Irvin's face at last.

He was slapping himself, guilt written all over him.

“I'm sorry. I forgot about the prenatal appointment. You were home alone when you fell and no one found you, and we lost the baby again.”

Emily trailed in behind him, her face tight with worry.

I blinked, then pressed my hand to my flat stomach.

Even if he hadn't forgotten, he still would have chosen to be with Emily first.

After a long silence, I spoke. My voice was calm.

“Irvin. I'm done. I want out.”

He froze for a second.

“I know you're upset. We can try again for a baby.”

“We've worked so hard for so long. I'll be better soon, I promise. Don't do this.”

He took my hand, both eyes full of pleading.

All those late nights I spent buried in textbooks, every wall of this house papered in notes, every word I carved into my own skin and repeated to him day after day—none of it stayed with him. But Emily? Her he never forgot.

I let out a weak smile：

“You forgot again. The doctor told me my body was never built to carry a child. Getting pregnant a second time was already a miracle. There won't be a next time.”

Surprise flickered across Irvin's eyes.

“And five years we've been married, and every single time you forgot to go to the county clerk's office with me. We never got the license. As far as the law's concerned, you and I are nothing.”

I pulled my hand free of his.

Irvin's face filled with panic：

“I promise you, nine o'clock tomorrow morning, the second the county clerk's office opens, I'll go with you to get our marriage license.”

I had heard that exact line countless times.

Every single time, it ended with him forgetting and then apologizing.

He checked the writing on my body carefully and sent someone to buy a pile of my favorite snacks.

When Emily reached for a banana, Irvin stopped her immediately.

He picked up a knife and started peeling an apple for her.

“You're allergic to bananas, you can't have those. Here, eat an apple instead. Good for your heart, and it'll soothe your throat.”

A bitter smile pulled at my lips, and just like that, I lost my appetite for all of it.

“Irvin, it's getting dark. Take Emily home first.”

He praised me for being thoughtful, kissed me once, and left with Emily.

The moment he was finally gone, I pulled out my phone and scrolled to the very last email.

It was an invitation from the University of California offering me a lectureship. Four hours until it expired.

I typed my reply：

【Amber Pruitt accepts the position. Will arrive and report in three days.】

I insisted on checking out of the hospital early so I could go home and pack.

Irvin gave in reluctantly.

“Why are all the sticky notes off the walls?”

The first thing he saw when he walked through the door was sticky notes scattered across the floor, stained with blood.

He turned to look at me：

“The writing on your body—where did it go?”

While he'd been busy running back and forth between the hospital and Emily's place, I had asked a nurse to help me scrub away every last trace.

The antiseptic bit into the open cuts. My skin screamed, but not as loud as the rest of me.