The scent of cinnamon and pumpkin filled our kitchen as I slid the perfectly golden pie out of the oven. Eight years. Eight years of marriage, and Charlie had forgotten our anniversary again. I didn't mind—really. I'd learned not to expect much in that department. But tonight was different. Tonight was Thanksgiving, and maybe the holiday spirit would remind him of what we once meant to each other.
I smoothed my dress, checking my reflection in the kitchen window. The woman staring back looked tired, her eyes holding a sadness I couldn't quite hide. Three years since the surgery, and some days my body still reminded me of what I'd given—what I'd thought I was giving.
"Is dinner ready yet?" Charlie's voice drifted from the living room, followed by a feminine laugh that made my stomach tighten.
"Just finishing up," I called back, carefully placing the pie on our best serving platter—the one we'd received as wedding gifts but rarely used.
I heard footsteps approaching, not just Charlie's familiar tread but lighter, quicker steps. Esmeralda appeared in the doorway, her dark hair falling in perfect waves past her shoulders, her wide eyes taking in the spread I'd prepared.
"It smells amazing in here," she said, her voice honey-sweet. "You've gone to so much trouble."
"It's nothing," I replied, though it had taken hours to prepare everything. "I thought Thanksgiving should be special."
Charlie entered behind her, his gaze immediately finding Esmeralda. "You shouldn't have worked so hard, Raquel. We could have ordered in."
I swallowed the lump in my throat. "I wanted to make something homemade."
The pie sat between us, golden crust glistening under the kitchen lights. I reached for the knife, intending to serve Charlie first—a small gesture of respect that had become habit over our years together.
But before I could cut, Charlie stepped forward, taking the knife from my hand. "Let me," he said, and I thought maybe he was finally noticing something—maybe the effort I'd put into this evening.
The knife sliced through the pie with a satisfying sound. Charlie cut a perfect wedge, the first slice always the most photogenic, and I smiled despite myself. Maybe this night wouldn't be so bad after all.
"Esmeralda," he said, turning away from me, "you've been such a help to our family. You deserve the best piece."
My smile froze as he handed her the perfect slice, steam rising from the generous portion. Then he turned back to the pie, cutting again—this time haphazardly, taking a bite from what remained before offering me the mutilated half-slice.
"Here you go," he said, not meeting my eyes. "You can have this part."
I stared at the plate, at the obvious bite marks in my portion, at Esmeralda's satisfied smile as she took her first delicate bite of the perfect slice.
"Thank you," I whispered, the words tasting like ash in my mouth.
---
Hours later, pain knifed through my abdomen, sharp and insistent. I curled into myself on our couch, trying not to make noise as Charlie and Esmeralda discussed literature at the dining table.
"Charlie," I finally gasped, unable to bear it any longer. "I need to go to the hospital."
He glanced up, irritation flashing across his face. "What's wrong now?"
"The scar tissue," I managed, another wave of pain stealing my breath. "It's worse than usual."
Esmeralda's hand flew to her stomach suddenly. "Oh! I feel strange too."
Charlie was at her side instantly. "What's wrong?"
"Just a cramp," she said, her voice small and frightened. "But it's really painful."
"I'll take you to the hospital," Charlie said, already reaching for his keys.
"What about me?" I asked, struggling to sit upright.
He hesitated, looking between us. "Raquel, you know what to do if it gets worse. Esmeralda's never had problems like this before."
"But—"
"I need to stay with her," he said firmly. "She's been through so much already."
I watched them leave, Charlie's arm protectively around Esmeralda's shoulders as he guided her to his car. The pain intensified, and I fumbled for my phone, dialing 911 with trembling fingers.
---
The emergency room lights were harsh against my pale skin as a nurse inserted an IV into my arm. "Severe dehydration," she murmured to the doctor. "Her liver enzymes are elevated."
"Complications from the donation surgery," I explained weakly.
The doctor nodded, reviewing my chart. "You should have come in sooner. This could have been avoided."
I closed my eyes, not wanting to explain that I'd tried to get help but had been left behind.
"Raquel?" Charlie's voice startled me. He stood in the doorway with Esmeralda clinging to his arm.
"She's asking for water," he said to the nurse, ignoring me completely. "And maybe a blanket? She says she feels cold."
Esmeralda sat in the visitor's chair, looking fragile and concerned while I lay on the hospital gurney, IV dripping into my veins.
"Your wife needs rest," the doctor told Charlie sternly. "These complications are serious."
Charlie barely glanced my way. "Esmeralda needs me right now. She's never been in a hospital before."
As the doctor continued explaining my condition, Charlie moved to Esmeralda's side, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders and murmuring comforts I couldn't hear.
I turned my face away, staring at the ceiling as tears slid silently down my temples. In that moment, I realized Charlie hadn't just forgotten our anniversary tonight.
He'd forgotten me entirely.
