My Husband’s Amnesia Brought His First Love Back

I found the note on Trenton's bed when I went to do laundry. A crumpled piece of paper with a gaming arcade's address scrawled across it, along with a heart doodle beside Adalyn's name.

My hands trembled as I smoothed out the paper. Three days of unexplained absences from school, and now this.

"Trenton!" I called out, my voice echoing through our once-peaceful home.

He emerged from his room, earbuds dangling around his neck. "What?"

"Where were you yesterday afternoon?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. "And the day before?"

He shrugged, not meeting my eyes. "Around."

"This says otherwise." I held up the note. "You were supposed to be in school, not at some arcade with..."

"With Adalyn," he finished, his chin lifting defiantly. "She actually cares about what I want to do."

The words cut deeper than he could know. Five years of bedtime stories, school plays, and parent-teacher conferences—all erased in favor of a few afternoons of video games with a woman who'd never shown interest in him before.

"Trenton, you can't just skip school," I said, stepping closer. "You have responsibilities—"

"Like you had responsibilities to Dad?" he snapped, his young face twisting with a cruelty that reminded me of Sebastian. "Adalyn says you trapped him into marriage. That you're just using us."

I flinched. "That's not true. I've always—"

"Always what? Been boring?" He cut me off. "Adalyn takes me places. She doesn't nag me about stupid homework or make me eat vegetables."

"Trenton—"

"I'm going out," he declared, grabbing his jacket. "Don't wait up."

Before I could respond, the front door opened and Adalyn swept in, her designer coat draped casually over her shoulders.

"There you are!" she exclaimed, as if she hadn't just been the subject of our conversation. "Ready to go?"

Trenton's face lit up. "Yeah! Can we get pizza this time?"

"Anything you want," she replied with a wink that deliberately excluded me.

"Adalyn," I said, stepping forward. "Trenton needs to stay home. He's been skipping school."

She turned to me with practiced concern. "Oh? He told me he had permission from his teacher."

"He doesn't," I insisted. "And as his mother—"

"As his what?" Sebastian's voice cut through the room as he appeared in the doorway.

My heart sank. "Sebastian, Trenton's been skipping school to hang out with Adalyn at arcades."

Sebastian's gaze hardened as it shifted between us. "And?"

"And I'm trying to discipline him," I said, bewildered by his response.

"Discipline him?" Sebastian stepped closer, his voice dropping dangerously. "Trenton is my son, not yours."

The words hit me like a physical blow. "I've raised him for five years, Sebastian. I'm his mother in every way that matters."

"You're not his mother," Sebastian said coldly. "And you don't get to discipline my son."

Trenton looked between us, his expression shifting from defiance to triumph. "See? Dad gets it."

"From now on," Sebastian continued, "if Trenton wants to spend time with Adalyn, that's his choice. You're not to interfere."

I stood there, hollowed out, as my authority was stripped away in front of the child I'd raised.

---

The photo album took me two days to create. I gathered every precious moment—our anniversary trip to the Hamptons, the day we adopted Trenton, the night Sebastian had finally agreed to start a family.

Each photo was a memory I desperately wanted to preserve, even if only for myself.

"This might help," I whispered to myself, placing the album on Sebastian's desk in his home office.

I lingered in the doorway, watching as he discovered it later that afternoon.

He flipped it open, his expression unreadable as he stared at the first photo—us on our wedding day, his arm stiff at my waist.

"What is this?" he asked without looking up.

"Memories," I said softly. "Our memories."

He turned the page, pausing at a photo of us with Trenton on adoption day. Something flickered in his eyes—confusion, perhaps.

"These aren't real," he said suddenly, his voice hardening.

"They are," I insisted, stepping closer. "Look at them, Sebastian. Look at us."

He stood abruptly, the album clutched in his hands. "Stop manipulating me."

"I'm not—"

"No?" He grabbed a photo—the one of us laughing on our anniversary—and tore it in half. Then another. And another.

I gasped as he systematically destroyed each precious memory, tearing them in front of me with methodical precision.

"Photoshopped," he spat, throwing the remnants at my feet. "All of them."

"Sebastian, please," I begged, reaching for a torn photo of Trenton's first Christmas with us.

"Enough!" he roared, his face contorted with rage. "No version of me could ever love a boring, gold-digging mute like you."

The words hung in the air between us, sharp as broken glass.

"You're pathetic," he continued, his voice dropping to a cruel whisper. "Trying to create a fantasy where you matter."

I backed away, tears blurring my vision as I stared at the scattered pieces of our past—our family—strewn across the floor like garbage.

"I would never," he said with finality, "love you."

The door closed behind me with a soft click that echoed like a gunshot in the empty hallway.