Chapter 1
My husband, Michael Rivers, suffered from a progressive memory disorder. At its worst, his memory reset every few minutes without warning.
To keep his life functioning, I prepared reminder cards every day. They told him who he was, who I was, and what day it was.
Michael said marrying me had been the luckiest decision of his life.
On Christmas Eve, my mom had a heart attack. I urged Michael to get the car, but he disappeared for half an hour.
By the time the ambulance arrived, my mom was already gone.
The grief was so overwhelming that I lost our baby, too.
Michael collapsed in front of me, sobbing uncontrollably.
He said, "It's my fault. My memory failed me. I couldn't remember where the car was, and I even forgot what I was supposed to do.
"Sarah, I'm so sorry. I deserve to die."
Friends and relatives tried to comfort me. They said his memory loss meant he had not done it on purpose.
Enduring the pain that tore through my chest, I chose to forgive him.
On the day of my mom's funeral, a local viral post popped up on my phone.
It read: [For ten years, he never missed our annual Christmas snow date.]
The woman, Emily Foster, had shared a picture online of Michael tenderly brushing the snow out of her hair.
*****
The sun was blazing down on the cemetery.
But the cold inside me had already seeped through my whole body.
My phone clattered to the ground.
Michael bent down to pick it up. When his eyes landed on that familiar profile picture, his fingers tensed up.
He straightened up and shot me a look full of blame.
Michael asked, "Why are you checking out Emily's profile? Don't you know it shows you've viewed her page?
"She has social anxiety and hates it when people pay too much attention to her. You're just stressing her out."
I didn't say anything.
I picked up my phone from the ground and gripped it tightly in my hand.
When he saw my eyes start to turn red, Michael realized he had gone too far. He quickly softened his tone and said, "Sarah, I know you're upset right now, but please don't make things hard for Emily.
"I only met up with her twice this month, because I didn't want you to feel jealous."
The flood of bitterness inside me finally burst through.
He could instantly forget my mom's life-or-death crisis, but somehow managed to remember exactly how many times he met up with Emily.
Thinking about the moment my mom lost her breath in my arms, I couldn't hold back anymore. Tears streamed down my face.
While Michael was frantically searching for a tissue, a white handkerchief was thrust into my hand.
Emily had appeared out of nowhere.
She waved the handkerchief at me, her big eyes blinking with a look that was pure mockery.
"You should've shown your mom some real respect when she was alive. Now that she's gone, crying won't change a thing," Emily said, her voice cold and sharp.
After that, Emily arched her brow at Michael, giving him a playful, almost provocative look.
She said, "Michael, you airhead, you can't even remember to bring a pack of tissues?
"Or did you go through all of them in the middle of the night, just like when you were a kid, burning through tissues in my photo?"
She was always like this, making risqué jokes no matter the occasion, just to flaunt their so-called friendship.
Michael didn't say a word, his cheeks flushing in a way I'd never seen before.
Staring at those nasty yellow stains on the handkerchief, I felt a wave of disgust wash over me.
Emily shot me a look, clearly fed up.
She said, "Sarah, stop fussing. If you keep crying, your face will be a mess of snot, and you'll look even worse.
"Come on, let me wipe it for you."
She snatched up the filthy handkerchief and jammed it against my face, scrubbing at me way too hard.
My skin stung from the rough treatment, and I couldn't help but slap her hand away.
Michael's face instantly darkened.
As if he suddenly remembered something, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pack of tissues.
He strode over and started wiping Emily's hands.
Michael said, "What are you doing? Don't you know snot and tears are crawling with germs?
"It's just your second day on your period, when your immune system is at its lowest. Why are you messing around like this?"
His words might've sounded like a scolding, but the genuine affection in his voice was unmistakable.
I looked at Michael fussing over her, and suddenly, he felt like someone I barely knew.
When I was pregnant and suffering from morning sickness, the only thing I could stomach was sour food. But every time Michael went shopping, he would come back with spicy snacks and sugary treats, stuff I couldn't stand.
No matter how many times I reminded him, Michael would just complain that his memory was shot and he couldn't keep track of such trivial things.
But now, he could remember someone else's period.
His so-called forgetfulness was never about his memory; it was about who was worth remembering.
Michael gave me an annoyed glare, his brows furrowed in frustration.
He said, "Sarah, what's wrong with you? Emily came all this way just to pay her respects. If your mom could see it, she'd be really moved..."
I cut him off, my tone icy. I said, "If she actually cared, she wouldn't show up in a red dress to pay respects to the dead."
Michael's gaze landed on Emily's bright red dress, and for a moment, his confidence faltered.
He swallowed hard, but he was obviously sticking up for her.
He said, "Come on, she's just a kid, she doesn't know all these funeral rules. What does it matter what she wears? It's not like your mother can see her now."
In that moment, it felt like someone had carved a chunk out of my heart.
I lifted my eyes to meet his, my voice icy.
"Michael, if you hadn't rushed off to spend Christmas with her, my mom wouldn't be dead right now," I said, my voice cold and steady.