The Wife Who Forgot Everything

After a huge fight with Ethan, I ran out of that suffocating house alone.

Rain poured down outside, and I had no choice but to duck into a small shop whose lights were still on.

Shivering from sadness and despair, I was handed a towel by the clerk, who looked at me with calm eyes and asked, "Ma'am, we have one last Forget-Me Capsule left. Would you like it?"

He slid open a drawer behind him and placed a deep black velvet box at the center of the counter.

Inside, two capsules lay quietly.

One was a dark, ocean-blue—like the color of the deep sea. The other was a piercing clear, filled with white powder.

"The blue one is Forget-Me. It will erase every painful memory from your mind within seventy-two hours."

"The clear one is Regret. If you change your mind and want your memories back, just take it. Everything will return."

I stared at the blue capsule like it was my only salvation.

"But I left in a hurry and I don't have..."

"We don't take money," he interrupted. "We only trade."

Trade?

My hand instinctively moved to my stomach.

"If..." My voice was barely a whisper. "If I traded my child. Would that be enough?"

Deal done.

I grabbed the blue capsule and swallowed it dry, then shoved the box with the clear antidote deep into my coat pocket, and stepped out into the rainy London night.

The rain came down harder.

As I reached the corner, a familiar silver Jaguar waited. The window rolled down.

Under the streetlight, Ethan Ward's sharp, handsome face appeared.

He frowned, clearly annoyed. "Get in," he ordered, not even looking at me. "Do you know how long I've been circling this block? Erin, you're being irrational and childish."

I opened the door and got in.

The car was overheated, almost suffocating, but it couldn't chase away the chill in my bones.

In the backseat, our seven-year-old son Leo was playing on his Switch. When he saw me, he scooted away and let out a loud "hmph."

"I don't want to talk to you." Leo's little voice was full of adult bitterness. "You're a bad mom. You don't love Aunt Leah."

I didn't rush to comfort either of them.

No apologies. No begging.

I just watched the city lights fly past the window.

Back home, the first thing I noticed was the patio.

It used to be full of color.

A year ago, I'd transplanted expensive Damask roses and rare blue hydrangeas there—my only corner of peace in this suffocating house, after endless hours as a lawyer. I watered them, trimmed them, cared for them like they were my own children.

Now, only muddy stains remained. The space was empty.

"I had the cleaners take them out," Ethan said, noticing my gaze as he unwound his cashmere scarf. His tone was chillingly flat. "Leah stopped by this afternoon and started coughing. She's still in treatment for leukemia and sensitive to smells. It's just a few flowers, not a big deal."

I stayed silent.

Ethan grew angrier.

"They're just plants. What's the big deal? Can't you make a small sacrifice for family health? When Leah gets better, I'll buy you new ones—ten times as many, okay?"

Leo stood at his father's side, like a little superhero, and shouted, "Yeah! Aunt Leah's so sick, and you only care about your stupid flowers! I wish Aunt Leah could be my mom—she never makes Dad mad over silly stuff!"

The air froze for a few seconds.

If it were yesterday, those words would've stabbed right through me.

I would've cried, would've asked Ethan why he let Leo talk to me like that.

I would've tried to explain how much I loved Leo, only to get more eye rolls and Ethan's usual line: "If you weren't so sensitive, he wouldn't say those things."

But now, all those feelings seemed distant—like they were separated from me by a veil.

I felt a strange lightness.

I turned around.

No anger. No sadness. I looked at them like strangers.

"Just flowers," I said calmly.

My voice was steady, not a hint of tremor.

Ethan froze, halfway through unbuttoning his sleeve.

He'd prepared a speech about responsibility, about the big picture, about my duty as a sister, about how my "emotions" disrupted his work.

He'd even rehearsed the patronizing comfort for when I cried.

But his punch landed on air.

"What did you say?" He frowned, thinking he'd misheard. "Weren't those rare flowers you worked so hard to grow? Last week, you were upset for hours when the cleaner knocked off a leaf."

I took off my coat and hung it up, my movements smooth and natural. "You're right. I'm the big sister. I should be mature."

I looked at both of them, a hint of a smile on my lips. "Isn't this what you always wanted?"

Ethan stared into my eyes, searching for tears, searching for anger. All he found was a hollow emptiness that made him uneasy.

"I know. I just find it strange, that's all."

Strange?

I looked out the window.

Not strange at all. None of it mattered to me anymore.