When I Woke, My Family Had Been Replaced

After three years in a coma from a car accident, the first thing I heard when I woke up was my wife's voice.

Ethan, our son got a medal at kindergarten today. He says when Daddy wakes up, he wants to give it to him.

My heart ached, my nose tingling with emotion.

These three years, she'd raised our child alone while caring for me in my coma. How hard that must have been.

"Mommy," a small voice piped up---our son's. "Does Daddy not like me anymore? Why won't he wake up?"

"Silly boy," Claire laughed softly, though her voice was thick with tears. "Daddy loves you most of all. He'll wake up very soon."

I couldn't hold back any longer. I forced my eyes open.

But standing by my hospital bed were two people I had never seen before in my life.

This was a woman in her early thirties.

Regular features, gold-rimmed glasses, wearing a well-tailored business suit.

She held a warm towel in her hand, frozen mid-air.

Next to her stood a boy about five or six years old.

Dressed in a little suit, his short hair neatly combed, clutching a teddy bear.

I didn't know them.

Absolutely didn't know them.

My heartbeat accelerated instantly, blood rushing to my brain.

Instinctively, I jerked my hand back, my body shrinking uncontrollably toward the headboard.

"Who are you? I don't know you. Why are you in my hospital room?"

The woman froze.

The towel dropped onto the blanket.

Her eyes widened, her face filled with disbelief, then her eyes quickly reddened and she lunged forward to embrace me.

"You're awake! You're finally awake! Doctor! Someone come quick!"

She turned toward the door and shouted, her voice carrying wild joy and choking emotion.

The little boy also rushed to the bedside, grabbing the hem of my hospital gown, bursting into tears.

"Daddy, you're finally talking to me! I missed you so much!"

I struggled desperately, pushing the woman's shoulders away, tearing the boy's hands off.

"Don't touch me! I don't know you! Where's Claire? Where's my wife Claire? And my son---where did you take them?"

I gasped for air, my eyes fixed on these two strangers.

The woman stumbled backward from my push, retreating two steps.

The wild joy on her face froze, replaced by deep shock and hurt.

She tried to touch me again, but her hand stopped mid-air.

"What are you talking about? I am Claire."

"This is our son. Look at me carefully. Don't you remember us?"

I stared hard at her face.

Not Claire.

Absolutely not.

Claire had a small mole at the corner of her mouth that looked especially gentle when she smiled.

Claire's chin was more pointed too, her eyes more curved.

This woman in front of me was completely different.

"Bullshit! You're not Claire at all! Who are you? What do you want?"

I grabbed the water glass from beside my pillow and smashed it on the floor.

The sound of shattering glass exploded in the hospital room.

Hearing the commotion, several doctors and nurses in white coats rushed in from outside.

Dr. Thompson, the head physician, strode quickly to my bedside and held down my flailing arms.

"Mr. Wilson, calm down! You just woke up, you can't get too emotional!"

I grabbed Dr. Thompson's sleeve and pointed at the woman, shouting.

"Dr. Thompson, I don't know them! They're not my family! Please call the police and get them out of here!"

Dr. Thompson frowned, glanced at the woman, then back at me.

She sighed, her tone carrying a trace of pity.

"Mr. Wilson, take a deep breath first."

"This is indeed your wife, Claire."

"These three years, she's been at the hospital with you every day."

"All these years, she's been the one taking care of you."

"As for this little boy, he's your son."

"Based on your current condition, our preliminary diagnosis is that because you suffered a severe car accident with frontal lobe damage, you've developed transient prosopagnosia, commonly known as face blindness."

"Your current reaction is quite normal."

I was stunned.

Frontal lobe damage?

Memory confusion?

How was that possible?

Claire's face was crystal clear in my mind.

I remembered the restaurant where we had our first date.

I remembered how she nodded with tears in her eyes when she accepted my

proposal.

I remembered her weak but happy smile when our son was born.

These memories were so vivid, as if they'd happened yesterday. How could they be confused?

The woman who claimed to be Claire approached with red-rimmed eyes, her voice hoarse.

"It's okay."

"It doesn't matter if you don't remember me, as long as you're awake."

Then she began recounting those moments that belonged only to us.

"I really am Claire."

"Do you remember the Japanese restaurant we went to on our first date? You insisted on ordering the crazy spicy wasabi octopus and ended up crying from the heat."

"Do you remember the day our son was born? I was crying in pain in the delivery room, and you were so nervous outside that you dropped our documents down a drain. The building manager had to fish them out for half an hour."

"Have you forgotten all of this?"

She was trying to prove her identity through these details.

My brain exploded with a boom.

She was completely right.

These were intimate details that only Claire and I knew.

I stared at her hard, trying to find any flaw in her face.

Nothing.

Her eyes were filled with deep affection, pain, and the joy of recovery.

The little boy tugged at my sleeve, crying so hard he could barely breathe.

"Daddy, don't you want me anymore?"

"When you were sick, I drew pictures for you every day. The nurse said if you saw them you'd wake up. Will you look at them, please?"

I looked at the little boy's completely unfamiliar face, my heart twisting painfully.

Had I really gone crazy?

Had my brain really malfunctioned, replacing my wife and son's faces with those of strangers?

Dr. Thompson patted my shoulder.

"Mr. Wilson, there are many cases of post-traumatic sequelae in medicine."

"You just woke up. Cooperate with treatment and recover slowly."

"Claire, please take the child outside and let him rest alone for a while."

The woman nodded, wiped her tears, and bent down to pick up the little boy.

At the doorway, she looked back at me, her eyes full of longing.

The hospital room door closed.

I lay alone in bed, staring at the ceiling.

Everything around me seemed absurd.

Who were they?

Had I really lost my memory?

Over the next few days, I cooperated with all the doctors' examinations.

MRI, EEG, psychological evaluation.

All the reports pointed to the same conclusion: my brain had organic damage causing cognitive impairment.

To prove these conclusions, the doctors even showed me our photos and family portraits.

And videos of our past life together.

Trying to use these to reawaken my memories.

The woman claiming to be Claire came every day.

She cooked all kinds of dishes I loved in different ways.

Steak, sushi.

The taste was incredibly identical to what I remembered Claire cooking.

She would sit by my bed, holding my hand, telling me about what happened over these three years.

How she sought medical treatment everywhere, how our son was bullied at kindergarten, how she cried looking at my photos every night.

She spoke with such genuine emotion, tears streaming down her face.

Several times, I almost wavered.

Had I really gotten sick?

But one extremely small detail instantly brought me back to clarity.

That afternoon, she peeled an apple and handed it to me.

"Eat some fruit to get your vitamins."

I looked at the apple offered to my mouth but didn't take it.

The real Claire was severely allergic to apples.

If she touched even a little apple juice, her skin would break out in red rashes, and she could even have difficulty breathing.

So all these years, we never bought apples at home, not even apple-flavored drinks.

I deliberately pretended to have no appetite and pushed her hand away.

"I don't want any. You eat it."

Without the slightest hesitation, she pulled back her hand, took a big bite of the apple, chewed and swallowed it.

"It's sweet. Sure you don't want any?"

I watched her completely normal reaction, cold sweat instantly seeping from my palms.