My Husband Pretended to Forget Me for Seven Years

The penthouse smells like disinfectant and something sour I can't quite place. I've scrubbed every surface twice today, but the scent clings to the air like a ghost.

Carson sits in his leather armchair by the window, staring at the Manhattan skyline with that vacant expression I've memorized over seven years. The late afternoon sun cuts across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw. He's only thirty-two, but sometimes I catch myself searching for gray in his dark hair, some physical proof of the disease eating away at his mind.

"Carson?" I set the dinner tray on the side table. Roasted chicken, mashed potatoes—soft foods he can manage without choking. "It's time to eat."

He doesn't turn. His fingers drum against the armrest in a rhythm that might be random or might be something he's forgotten he once knew.

I kneel beside the chair, my knees protesting. Twenty-nine years old, and my body feels ancient. "Honey, you need to eat something."

His eyes slide toward me, unfocused. "Who are you?"

The question lands like it always does—a small knife between my ribs. "I'm Aurelia. Your wife."

"Wife." He tests the word, his brow furrowing. Then his hand shoots out, knocking the water glass off the tray. It shatters against the hardwood, and I'm already moving, already reaching for the towel I keep tucked in my pocket for moments exactly like this.

"It's okay." My voice stays level, soothing. I've perfected this tone—the one that never cracks, never reveals the exhaustion pressing down on my shoulders like a physical weight. "Accidents happen."

I'm on my hands and knees, picking up glass shards, when he speaks again.

"I don't know you."

"I know." The words taste like ash. "But I know you. That's enough."

It takes twenty minutes to clean the mess, change his shirt where water splashed, and coax him to eat half the chicken. He chews slowly, mechanically, while I sit on the ottoman and watch. Making sure he swallows. Making sure he's still here, even if he doesn't know where here is anymore.

The neurologist's words from seven years ago still echo in my head: *Early-onset Alzheimer's. Aggressive progression. He'll need full-time care within months.* We'd been married three weeks.

Three weeks of being Mrs. Carson Webb before I became his nurse.

"I need to run to the pharmacy," I tell him once he's finished eating. "Your prescription is ready. I'll be back in thirty minutes."

He's already drifted away, his gaze returning to the window.

I grab my purse and coat, pausing at the door to look back. He's silhouetted against the dying light, perfectly still. Beautiful and unreachable.

The pharmacy is six blocks away. I could have it delivered, but I need these small escapes—twenty minutes of walking through the city, pretending I'm someone else. Someone whose husband remembers her name.

I'm back in twenty-five minutes, prescription bag in hand. The penthouse is quiet when I enter. Too quiet.

Carson isn't in his chair.

My heart kicks against my ribs. "Carson?"

Nothing.

I move through the apartment, checking the bedroom, the bathroom. Panic rises in my throat. He's wandered off before, but never far. Never—

Laughter.

I freeze in the hallway. It's coming from the study, the room Carson hasn't been able to navigate to in years. The door is cracked open, warm light spilling through.

I approach slowly, my footsteps silent on the runner carpet.

"God, I've missed this." Carson's voice, clear and strong. No hesitation, no confusion. "Seven years is too long, Veronica."

My hand finds the doorframe. Through the gap, I see him. My husband. Standing at the bar cart, pouring wine into two glasses with steady hands. A woman sits on the leather sofa—dark hair, red lips, legs crossed with casual elegance.

"You could have come to Paris," she says, accepting the glass he offers. Her accent carries a European lilt. "Instead of playing house with that mousy little thing."

Carson laughs. Actually laughs. The sound is foreign, something I haven't heard in so long I'd forgotten what his joy sounded like.

"Aurelia?" He swirls his wine. "She's not my wife. She's a hired stranger. Someone to keep the bed warm and the apartment clean while I waited for you."

The floor tilts beneath me.

"Seven years of pathetic devotion." He takes a long drink. "Sometimes I almost felt guilty. Almost."

Veronica leans back, smiling. "You always were a good actor."

The prescription bag slips from my fingers. It hits the floor with a soft thud, but neither of them hears it.

I'm already moving—back down the hallway, into the bedroom, pulling my suitcase from the closet. My hands shake as I throw clothes inside. Anything. Everything. Nothing matters except getting out.

Seven years.

Seven years of my life, poured into a lie.

I don't cry. There's something beyond tears, some vast emptiness where my heart used to be.

Twenty minutes later, I'm in a cab to JFK. The driver asks if I'm okay. I tell him I'm fine.

Another lie. But what's one more?

The airport is chaos—families reuniting, businessmen rushing, the constant drone of announcements. I buy a ticket to my parents' house in Connecticut. The next flight leaves in two hours.

I stand in the security line, clutching my boarding pass. The fluorescent lights are too bright. The noise is too loud. My vision blurs at the edges.

Something's wrong.

The floor rushes up to meet me, and then there's only darkness.