When Willow opened her eyes in the hospital, everything from her life before the accident was gone. The doctors called it complete amnesia. To me, it felt worse than that. It felt like I had lost my wife while she was still lying right in front of me.
“Who are you?” she asked the first time I walked into her room.
The doctors had warned me she wouldn’t remember anything, but hearing the question still hit like a punch to the chest. There was no recognition in her eyes. No warmth. Just confusion and caution.
I pulled a chair closer and explained everything as gently as I could. I told her her name was Willow and that mine was Tag. I explained that we were married, that we’d built a life together, and that the accident had taken her memories away.
When I tried sitting beside her on the bed, she immediately pointed me back toward the chair.
“I’m sorry,” she said carefully, “but I can’t picture myself married to you. No offense, Tag—or Tajn—or whatever your name is. You just don’t seem like my type.”
The words stung more than I expected. I tried not to show it.
Willow drew a slow breath and turned her face toward the window. “I’m tired now. I think I want to rest.”
I nodded and stood awkwardly beside the bed, suddenly unsure what a husband was supposed to do when his wife no longer knew him. On impulse, I leaned down to kiss her goodbye.
She stopped me instantly, pressing her hand against my mouth with a sharp frown.
The rejection froze me in place. To her, I wasn’t her husband. I was a stranger standing too close to her hospital bed.
“Okay,” I said quietly, stepping back. “I’ll let you sleep. Maybe we can talk more later.”
“Maybe,” she answered without looking at me.
When I hesitated near the door, Willow rolled onto her side, turning away completely.
“Goodbye,” she said.