He Forgot Me—But I Remember Everything / Chapter 3: The Pawn and the Cage
He Forgot Me—But I Remember Everything

He Forgot Me—But I Remember Everything

Author: Patrick Morrison

Chapter 3: The Pawn and the Cage

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Early spring snow was melting, and the penthouse living room was covered with a soft white wool rug. The housekeeper helped me sort through some boxes from the study.

“Ma’am, do you still want these?” she asked, setting a few carefully sealed boxes at my feet.

“What are they?” I asked, thinking maybe they were Caleb’s. I opened them up—and found they were all mine. Jar after jar: used pens, sticky notes, broken combs, chipped mugs… And that glass jar with my hair tie, the one I’d found at my feet. All my stuff, all hidden in his closet. All carefully kept.

“Should I throw them out, ma’am?” I turned away. “What did you buy for groceries today?”

Caleb didn’t come home until way past midnight. Around one in the morning, I felt the other side of the bed dip. I rubbed my eyes, searching for his warmth in the moonlight. He smelled good—gentle, like cedar and fresh rain.

“I made you dinner, but it didn’t taste good, so I ate it myself,” I said, my voice soft.

He pulled me close and kissed my hair. “Sorry I’m late.” I hugged him tight. “You’re not late.”

This was always our game. He was afraid I didn’t love him. I was afraid he didn’t want to. Any longer and we’d explode. Any closer and we’d melt. Neither of us brave enough to say how we really felt. So he lied to me, and I lied to him.

“Aren’t you mad I lied to you like that?” I asked. He was silent. Just as I was drifting off, he whispered, “I’m just glad—glad you still care.”

He thought I was just a pawn in his game, like his mother had been. That our marriage was doomed to be as unhappy as our parents’. He never believed anyone would actually choose him. So he’d rather protect me, the pawn—never let me hope for more. Never let himself hope, either. The sooner it ended, the sooner I’d be free. Free from the cage that bound me. He couldn’t love because he’d never been loved. So, don’t bother with extra things. Don’t make soup for him. Love only hurts. So we settled into our silent truce. That was good. That was safe.

“Are we getting a divorce?” Who ended up addicted? Who found something almost blasphemous in all of this, something that felt so wrong? So he got scared and told the truth, but could only cover it up with lies.

“A house? A car? Shares? I can give you anything.” He had nothing, but he’d give it all to the gods. But the gods said, “Tonight, I want to sleep in your bedroom.”

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