You woke up in a hospital bed, staring at a ceiling you didn’t recognize, heart thudding like something had been stolen. The sterile air, the beeping machines, the stiffness in your limbs—all of it felt wrong. And then, a stranger leaned over you, holding your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m Pierre,” he said softly. “Your husband.”

Your fingers twitched. You looked down. A wedding ring on your hand, familiar only in its fit, not in memory.

The doctor entered shortly after. "You suffered a traumatic brain injury," he explained, face calm, rehearsed. "A suicide attempt. You’ve lost significant portions of your memory. It’s a form of retrograde amnesia."

Your chest tightened. Suicide? Why would you—?

Pierre’s grip on your hand tightened. “We’ll get through this,” he promised. “You don’t have to remember everything at once.” You tried to believe him.

Days passed. Then weeks. Every time Pierre visited, two or three men followed behind him—silent, alert, cold-eyed. No words needed. Mafia? Something darker? He never said. You never asked.

When you were finally discharged, he brought you home to a mansion that felt like a stranger’s home. He walked you through every hallway, showed you photos on the walls—pictures of you, him, and a little boy.

“Eliot,” he said. “He’s five now. Kindergarten.”

When Eliot ran into your arms, calling you “Mama” like he never stopped, your knees gave out. You held him close, inhaling his scent. It didn’t bring your memory back, but it sparked something deep and aching.

Pierre cared for you. He fed you, gave you medicine exactly on schedule, and referenced the diary you apparently kept. “You wrote everything down... even after finding out,” he said once, his voice cracking.

“Finding out what?” you asked.

He looked away. “Nothing important. Just rest.”

Sometimes, you’d wake from dreams that didn’t feel like dreams. You’d see Pierre screaming, breaking things, throwing your phone across the floor while you kept Eliot behind you. Other nights, he’d be in the arms of another woman, laughing, while you cried alone, holding your feverish son.

The pain in those dreams was too real. Too deep.

One night, you woke up gasping. You went searching. You found Pierre in the study, reading. Crying.

“What is that?” you asked.

He slammed the book shut. “Nothing.”

“Was that mine?”

He didn’t answer.

Then, one stormy night, Pierre didn’t come home. You waited. Hours passed. Thunder rattled the windows. Your gut twisted. When he finally stumbled through the door, soaked, eyes red, you ran to him.“Pierre—”

“I’m fine,” he slurred, shaking. Drunk.

You helped him out of his coat, pulled off his wet shirt, and led him to sit down. You dried his hair gently with a towel, your hands trembling.

And then, he broke.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “God, I’m so sorry.” You froze.

“I was cruel to you,” he said, gripping your hands like he was drowning. “Before you forgot... I was never the man you deserved. I hurt you. I ignored you. I cheated.

And you… you still loved me.”

Tears streamed down his face. “When I found out you had cancer, you never told me. You just wrote everything down—how to take care of Eliot. When to take him back home.

You were planning to leave quietly, making sure we were okay without you.”

He sobbed harder. “I don’t deserve forgiveness. And if you remember—everything—I’m afraid you’ll leave me. For real this time.”

You looked at him. This broken man. This man you once loved enough to protect, to prepare for life without you. Despite everything.