He Forgot to Love Me

The sensor light at the entrance flickered on as I knelt, tying my son Jon's shoelaces. The footsteps were light but carried a familiarity that made my heart stop. I snapped my head up, locked into a pair of deep, piercing eyes. It's Brad Ferguson. The man who has been "dead" to me for three years. He wore a sharply tailored dark gray suit, slimmer than he was three years ago, yet his eyes and brow still held the same look that once made my heart skip. But in those eyes, the tenderness I once knew was gone—replaced by utter estrangement. My throat tightened, breaths shallow and labored, and I stood frozen, staring at him. Jon sensed something was wrong too; he followed my gaze and furrowed his brow. "Mom, who is that man?" He tugged at the corner of my shirt, his voice soft and husky. Brad Ferguson's gaze fixed on Jon without a flicker of emotion, as if staring at a stranger utterly irrelevant. Without hesitation, he turned and took the woman's hand behind him. She wore an off-white dress, her makeup flawless, with a fragile grace in her brows and eyes—it was Cynthia Crystal. When Brad looked at Cynthia, the stranger in his eyes instantly surrendered to longing. His fingertips traced the back of her hand with a tenderness that seemed almost liquid. "Who are you? Why are you in my house?" He spoke, his voice cold and utterly void of warmth. I stood up, my throat dry and raw, unable to speak a single word for what felt like an eternity. Three years—countless times I dreamed of his return, yet never imagined it would unfold like this. "Brad Ferguson, I am Lena Pitt, your wife." I swallowed my tears, forcing out each word with agonizing clarity. He furrowed his brow, his eyes swimming with confusion and impatience. "Wife?" He sneered, his voice dripping with scorn, "You've got the wrong man. I've never met you—or had a wife." "No!" I said, pointing at Jon Ferguson. "This is Jon Ferguson, your son. He's four years old now — the child I was carrying before you left." Brad Ferguson's gaze landed again on Jon, utterly unmoved, but this time tinged with disgust. "I have no son." His voice was resolute as he stepped forward, shielding Cynthia Crystal behind him. "Cynthia is the only person I love. We're about to get married. Please take him away and stop spouting nonsense here, disturbing us." Cynthia peered out timidly, stole a glance at me, then quickly lowered her head, clutching Brad's arm tightly, visibly frightened. "Brad, maybe we should leave now. Let's not argue with them anymore." Her voice was soft, deliberately laced with tenderness. Brad Ferguson gently squeezed her hand and reassured her, "Don't be afraid. With me here, I won't let anyone hurt you." His gaze grew colder as he looked at me, as if I were a ridiculous clown. In that moment, I felt my blood run cold. Three years of aching longing and waiting shattered utterly in his frigid, indifferent words. I forced myself to stay calm. Maybe something happened during those three years he was gone—maybe he'd lost his memory. I wanted to explain to him, to pull out our wedding photos and the Marriage Certificate, to tell him just how deeply we once loved each other. But watching him protect Cynthia Crystal like that, the words caught in my throat. Even if he remembers, what difference does it make? His heart belongs to Cynthia Crystal now. Perhaps letting go is the only choice left. I took a deep breath, grasped Jon Ferguson's hand, and forced myself to say calmly, "Sorry. We're leaving now." With that, I pulled Jon Ferguson along and walked out of this villa packed with our memories, never once looking back.