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.
