My Husband Erased My Memories

I spent ten years keeping our severely allergic son alive and gave up my award-winning career to support my husband.

My reward? My son killed my unborn baby, and my husband labeled me "mentally ill."

Dr. Steve Harrington, the brilliant psychiatrist, thought he was a genius.

He secretly used me as a lab rat for his experimental detachment therapy, trying to wipe away my "paranoid jealousy" so he could safely cheat with his postdoc researcher.

It worked. The therapy worked perfectly.

It wiped away my jealousy, my anger, and every single drop of love I ever had for him.

Now, Steve is trapped in an empty house with a ruined reputation, holding my son as they both beg for my return.

But Dr. Harrington forgot one crucial medical fact: there is no cure for a woman who has finally woken up.

The black MGH lanyard and the leather itinerary folder sat on the entryway console. My husband, Steve, forgot them again.

I grabbed my keys off the hook. Massachusetts General Hospital was only a ten-minute walk from our Cambridge townhouse. I figured I would just drop them off. He always complained when he didn't have his access card for the labs.

The hallway of the psychiatric research building was quiet. I walked toward Steve's conference room. The heavy wooden door was cracked open. I raised my hand to knock.

"Honestly, I've had it."

Steve’s voice stopped my fist in mid-air.

"She has to control every single thing. My son and I can barely breathe in that house anymore."

I froze. My hand hovered inches from the wood.

A colleague laughed. "Come on, Steve. Didn't you used to say her intense caring was just her way of loving you?"

Steve let out a cold, sharp laugh. "That was then. Now it's just suffocating. Do you know what she did last week? She chased Phoebe down in the parking garage. Accused her of hitting on me. It’s completely irrational. She has severe paranoid attachment issues."

My chest tightened. I hadn't chased Phoebe. I had calmly asked the young postdoc why she was texting my husband at midnight about her "panic attacks."

"So what's the plan?" the colleague asked. "You look exhausted."

"Vermont," Steve said smoothly. "The woodland rehab base up there. I’m taking Phoebe for three months. We’re doing an immersive trauma healing study for her PTSD. It's a huge grant opportunity."

"Three months? What the hell are you going to tell Rachel?"

"I'm telling her I'm taking Toby to a Canadian outdoor science camp. It looks great on his middle school applications. Rachel loves anything that boosts his academic resume. She won't question it."

"And Toby is cool with this? He's ten."

"Of course he is," Steve said, his tone dripping with arrogant confidence. "Toby will cover for me. He’s done it before. He knows exactly what to say to his mother. She buys it every single time."

I stopped breathing. My ten-year-old son. My Toby. He knew? He helped Steve cover up his affairs? How many times had they lied to me?

"Isn't Rachel pregnant?" the colleague asked, sounding slightly uncomfortable. "Is it safe to just leave?"

"Exactly why it's the perfect time," Steve replied. "Her pregnancy isn't stable right now. She’s sick all the time and barely leaves the house. By the time we get back in three months, Phoebe's treatment will be done, and everything goes back to normal. Rachel won't suspect a thing. She needs me too much to ever look closely."

My knees gave out. I stumbled backward, my shoulder hitting the wall with a soft thud.

I didn't wait to hear the rest. I turned and practically ran down the sterile hallway.

I don't remember how I got home.

I sat on the living room sofa, staring blankly at the gallery wall. There were our wedding photos. Steve smiling, looking at me like I was the only woman in the world. And there were Toby’s baby pictures, his toothless grin framed in silver.

I rested my hand on my stomach. I was eight weeks pregnant. For the past month, I had been throwing up every morning, exhausted and drained, trying to hold down the fort so Steve could focus on his academic promotion.

I gave up my floral studio for this family. I won a silver medal at the New England Floral Design competition, but I packed up my shears and closed my business to be a full-time wife. I spent my days meticulously checking food labels, interrogating restaurant chefs, and cooking everything from scratch to protect Toby from his severe tree nut allergy. I built my entire universe around these two men.

And now, Steve was taking his mistress to Vermont.

And my son Toby was helping him.

No. I shook my head hard, pressing my palms against my eyes. Toby is just a kid. He’s ten years old. Steve must be manipulating him. My son wouldn't do this to me. He wouldn't lie to my face while his father cheated on me. He just wouldn't.

I needed to see him. I needed to look my son in the eye and ask him the truth.

I grabbed my coat and walked out the door.

I arrived at Toby’s private elementary school twenty minutes before the final bell rang.

I stood by the front gates, shivering in the winter chill. The morning sickness had been absolutely brutal today. I hadn't showered. My hair was pulled back into a messy, uneven low bun. I wore no makeup, and I had thrown on an old, oversized wool cardigan that was pilled at the sleeves. I looked terrible, but I didn't care. I just needed to see my boy.

The loud buzz of the bell finally rang.

The doors flew open, and a sea of kids in navy blue uniforms poured out onto the sidewalk. I scanned the crowd anxiously.

Then I saw him. Toby was walking out with a group of his hockey teammates. He was laughing at a joke, swinging his heavy equipment bag over one shoulder.

"Toby!" I raised my hand and waved.

Toby looked up. His eyes locked onto mine through the crowd.

Instantly, the bright smile vanished from his face. His jaw tightened, and a look of pure, unadulterated disgust flashed across his features.

He stopped walking.

One of his teammates nudged him in the ribs. "Hey, Toby. Isn't that your mom? She's here to pick you up."

I took a step forward, a tired, hopeful smile forming on my lips. "Hey, sweetie, I thought I'd come get you early—"

Toby turned his back to me. He looked directly at his teammate.

"What are you talking about?" Toby snapped.

The teammate looked confused, pointing at me. "That lady over there waving at you. The one in the ugly sweater."

Toby rolled his eyes.

"Are you blind? That's not my mom," Toby said loudly. He scoffed, gesturing vaguely in my direction. "That's Ms. Green. She's just our housekeeper!"