I lost two years of my memory in a car acc!dent. Then I fell in love with the nurse who helped me recover.
Two years later, I married him. But on our wedding night, one drunken sentence made me question everything I thought I knew about my husband—and about myself.
The string lights above the wedding terrace had softened into blurry golden circles.
My dress felt heavier than it had during the ceremony, and my left leg—the one that had spent months in a cast—was beginning to ache.
Across the dance floor, Richard was laughing with one of the caterers.
I still couldn’t quite believe he was my husband.
Inside my clutch was the little leather notebook I had carried everywhere since waking up in a hospital two years earlier with stitches across my forehead, a broken leg, and a large piece of my life missing.
Retrograde amnesia.
