He Thought I’d Stay the Perfect Wife

After my miscarriage, my psychiatrist husband offered to erase the painful memories to help me forget them.

During the three months I was dumped in a rehab facility, he took our daughter and his cousin on a European vacation.

Now that they're back, he assumes I’ll go right back to being that meticulous, perfect wife.

But I didn't.

He deliberately provokes me, thinking my coldness is just me playing hard to get.

He has no idea that the brainwashing procedure didn't just wash away my pain—it completely severed my love for him.

——

The harsh overhead light snapped on, tearing through the darkness of the ground-floor guest room.

I opened my eyes to see Arthur standing in the doorway. He was still wearing his tailored travel suit. His face was entirely devoid of warmth.

"Why are you sleeping down here?" he asked, his voice flat.

I pulled the blanket up and sat against the headboard. "I'm still processing the trauma from the miscarriage. Let's just sleep in separate rooms for a while."

Arthur stared at me, his eyes narrowing as if evaluating a resistant patient. "You didn't call me at all today."

"Why would I?"

His jaw tightened. "Before I left, if I wasn't home by ten, you would blow up my phone until I answered. You checked my location constantly."

Right. The old me. Looking back at those memories felt like watching a humiliating video of a stranger. My chest didn't tighten with jealousy; it just felt hollow.

"Sorry," I said evenly. "It won't happen again."

Arthur let out a short, cynical breath. "Jane, if you think this passive-aggressive silent treatment is going to make me feel guilty, you're wasting your time." He turned toward the hallway. "You can throw your little tantrum if you want, but make sure my study is organized by tomorrow morning."

The door clicked shut.

I lay back down and stared at the ceiling. I didn't feel angry. I didn't feel slighted. I just felt tired.

According to the memories Arthur meticulously guided me through during our sessions, I was mopping the kitchen floor, slipped on a wet patch, and lost the baby. He told me the trauma was threatening to shatter my psyche, so he performed eye movement desensitization and reprocessing—EMDR—to help me "heal."

Maybe it worked. It certainly erased the grief. But it also stripped away every other emotion I had.

I thought about the woman I was before the rehab. Waking up at 5:00 AM every single morning to prep a strict gluten-free, dairy-free breakfast for our daughter, Lily. Ironing Arthur's shirts to perfection. Treating every female patient or nanny like a potential threat.

I was an idiot. And I had absolutely zero interest in picking up that script again.

A few hours later, loud, aggressive pounding on my door pulled me awake.

"Mom! Open the door!" Lily shouted from the hallway. "Where's my breakfast? I'm going to be late for school!"

Usually, I'd already be at the island, negotiating with her over a plate of steamed vegetables and egg whites, terrified she would have an allergic reaction to processed food.

"In Europe, Chloe bought me candy every single morning!" Lily yelled, kicking the bottom of the wood. "Your food tastes like garbage anyway! Chloe is way better than you!"

I lay completely still. The old me would have been utterly devastated by her preference for Arthur’s cousin. Now, it barely registered.

I picked up my phone from the nightstand.

"I'm ordering Uber Eats," I called out, my voice completely flat. "It's a pizza. It'll be here in thirty minutes."

The kicking stopped. "Pizza for breakfast?" I heard her mutter. Her footsteps quickly faded toward the front door.

I set the phone down and closed my eyes again.

I don't know how much time passed before a hand gripped my arm and violently yanked me out of bed.

"What the hell did you feed her?!" Arthur roared.

I stumbled as he dragged me out of the guest room and into the living room.

Lily was slouched on the couch. Her face was severely swollen, her skin covered in angry, spreading red hives. Her chest heaved frantically as she fought for a single breath of air. Anaphylactic shock.

"Even if you’re pissed at me," Arthur spat, his fingers digging painfully into my shoulders, "you do not use our daughter's life to get back at me!"

I glanced at the coffee table. Next to the pizza box was an opened container of an oatmeal fruit bowl.

The siren blared, deafening and relentless, as the ambulance sped toward the emergency room.

Arthur sat across from me in the back. He reached out and locked his fingers around my wrist, tightening his grip until I was sure it would leave a bruise.

"You did this on purpose," he hissed over the noise. "You heard her say she liked Chloe better, so you tried to punish her. You're a lunatic, Jane."

I looked at his twisted, furious face carefully. I searched myself for the familiar panic, the desperation to explain my innocence, the urgent need for his approval.

Nothing. Just an empty, clinical quiet.

I easily pulled my wrist out of his grip.

"The oatmeal bowl was a promotional freebie from the restaurant," I said, my voice eerily calm as I met his glare. "I explicitly listed her nut allergies in the delivery app notes. They ignored it."

Arthur froze. He clearly wasn't expecting this level of cold detachment from me.

"What more do you want me to do?" I asked, leaning back against the metal wall of the ambulance. "If you think I'm doing such a terrible job, just hire someone else to do it from now on."