Surgically Removing My Love For You

I took a speeding, out-of-control truck to the skull to keep my wife and daughter from being crushed.

When I finally woke up, the doctors told Rachel that my cognitive function was permanently capped at the level of a five-year-old.

At my bedside, Rachel wept, clutching my hand and swearing to the heavens that she would spend the rest of her life protecting me. Our daughter, Lucy, held my pinky in her tiny palm, her voice high and sweet: "Dont worry, Daddy. Lucy will keep you safe now."

For the first two years, they actually did.

Then, in the third year, Brandon arrived.

He was the kind of guy who could fix a leaky kitchen pipe without calling a plumber, the guy who sat at the dining table patiently explaining long division to Lucy, the guy who had a warm, home-cooked meal waiting on the stove whenever Rachel stumbled home after a grueling double shift.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, they fell in love with having him around.

Rachel began giving him the prime cuts of the roast. Lucy drew a new family portrait for art class and sketched him right in the middle, standing where I used to stand.

On Lucys eighth birthday, I stood outside her bedroom door, clutching the gift I had spent a month crafting with my stiff, fumbling fingers. Through the crack in the door, I saw her snuggling into Rachel's lap.

"Mommy," Lucy whispered, her eyes wide. "Daddy is so silly. Why can't Brandon just be my real daddy?"

Rachel didnt correct her. Her silence cut deeper than any words could have.

I crawled back into my bedroom and cried until my chest ached. Finally, with trembling hands, I dialed a number I had kept memorized from a lifetime I could barely recall. It belonged to my old mentor.

"You once told me you could make me smart again," I whispered into the receiver. "Does the offer still stand?"

A heavy silence stretched over the line. Finally, he spoke, his voice thick with gravity.

"It does, Thomas. But you know the cost. You will lose everything else. You will forget them."

"I'm not afraid of forgetting, Professor," I whispered.

The old man let out a long, heavy sigh, telling me to wait while he made the arrangements and that the surgery would be scheduled soon.

I hung up, staring down at the hand-carved wooden pony in my palms. It was Lucys eighth birthday present. I had spent a month scraping away at a block of pine with a dull pocketknife, my fingers now covered in circular Band-Aids. They stung at the slightest touch.

But I had kept telling myself: "Lucy will smile when she sees this. Lucy will be happy."

Laughter erupted from the living room, loud and bright.

"Brandon! What did you get me?" Lucys voice was full of pure excitement.

"Ta-da! The limited-edition Barbie dreamhouse set youve been begging for," Brandon replied, his voice rich and easy.

"Oh my gosh, Brandon! Youre the best! I love you so much!" I heard the distinct, wet sound of Lucy planting a kiss on his cheek.

A dull, heavy ache settled in my chest.

I stood up, pushing my bedroom door open. In the kitchen, Rachel was setting the table. Brandon was wearing my favorite linen apron, holding a spatula, laughing as he ruffled Lucy's hair.

The three of them stood there, framed by the warm kitchen light, looking exactly like the families in the commercials.

I squeezed the wooden pony tight and shuffled over to Rachel's side. "Rachel, I'm hungry."

The smile on Rachels face faltered. She turned to me, her voice dropping into a hushed, exasperated whisper. "Thomas, go back to your room for a little bit, okay? Its Lucys birthday, and we have a guest."

"A guest."

I didn't understand. If Brandon was a guest, why was he wearing my apron?

I held the wooden pony out toward Lucy, offering it like a peace offering. "Lucy, happy birthday. Daddy carved this pony for you. Remember? You used to love the carousel."

The joy instantly drained from Lucys face. She took a step back, hiding behind Brandons leg.

"I don't want that. It's ugly," she said, pointing a finger at my hands. "And your fingers are all bandaged and gross. Don't touch my new dolls with those dirty hands."

My hand froze in midair.

It wasn't ugly. I had sanded it down for hours, making sure there wasn't a single rough edge that could hurt her.

Brandon knelt down, pulling Lucy into a protective hug, and looked up at me with a patronizing smile. "Tom, kids don't know how to filter themselves. Don't take it to heart. But honestly, raw wood can be a bit splintery. We wouldn't want Lucy getting hurt, right, Rachel?"

He looked up at my wife.

Rachel frowned, stepping over to push my hand down. "Thomas, stop making a scene. Brandon was nice enough to cook for us today. Cant you just behave for once?"

"But Rachel," I muttered, looking at her. "You used to say that as long as I made it, Lucy would love it."

Rachels eyes darted away, her guilt quickly hardening into irritation. "That was before. Lucy is older now. She has real interests. Go back to your room with that block of wood. Youre ruining the mood."

"A block of wood."

My eyes stung, hot tears blurring my vision. I looked down at the cuts on my fingers. They really, really hurt.

Brandon stood up, gently tugging Rachels arm. "Rachel, don't be so harsh. He has the mind of... well, he's like a kid. Maybe we should let him sit at the table? I can whip up another side dish."

Rachel sighed, her gaze softening as she looked at him. "Youre too patient, Brandon. He doesn't appreciate it anyway. He just causes trouble. Let him eat in his room so he doesn't knock things over and ruin Lucy's night."

I understood.

They didn't want me there.

I clutched the pony to my chest and turned back toward the hallway. "I won't eat at the table. I'll eat in my room."

As I closed the door behind me, I heard Brandon asking Lucy, "So, birthday girl, what did you wish for when you blew out your candles?"

Lucys voice carried clearly through the thin drywall. "I wished that Brandon could stay with us forever and be my real daddy."

This time, Rachel didn't say a word. She didn't protest.

I leaned against the door, and the tears finally spilled over, hot and silent.

They really didnt want me anymore.

I wanted to be smart again. I wanted to leave this place.

I pulled out my phone and typed a clumsy message to my mentor. "Professor, can we do the surgery sooner?"

"Yes, Thomas. I will arrange it as quickly as possible," the reply came.

I stared at the glowing screen, then buried my face in my knees.

The next morning, the apartment was dead quiet. Rachel and Lucy were already gone, and Brandon was nowhere to be seen. On the kitchen counter sat a couple of stale, cold breakfast biscuits.

Beside them was a note from Rachel.

"Took Lucy to the amusement park with Brandon. Stay inside and don't wander off."

My stomach growled. I picked up a biscuit and took a bite, but it was dry and hard as a rock. I couldn't swallow it.

Rachel never used to let me eat cold food. She used to tell me my stomach was sensitive and that cold food would give me cramps. She used to wake up early to simmer warm, fragrant chicken porridge for me. If I didn't want to eat, she would coax me like a child, holding the spoon to my lips.

"Just one bite, Tommy. One bite, and I'll give you a kiss."

Now, she couldn't even bear to look at me.

I wanted to go to the amusement park, too. They had promised me that after Lucy's birthday, we would all go together and ride the Ferris wheel. But they took Brandon instead.

I put the biscuit down and drank a glass of tap water. I didn't understand why Brandon's arrival meant I had to lose everything.

Around noon, the front door clicked open. Rachel and Lucy walked in, with Brandon trailing closely behind. But Lucy wasn't happy; she was sobbing hysterically.

Brandons arm was wrapped in heavy white gauze, seeped through with fresh, bright red blood. Rachel was holding onto his good side, her face pale with panic and tenderness.

"Careful, watch your step," she murmured. "The doctor said to keep the stitches dry."

I ran over, looking at them. "Rachel, what happened?"

Rachel snapped her head up, her eyes flashing with pure fury. She shoved me back, hard.

"Don't touch him!"

I stumbled backward several steps, my spine slamming into the sharp edge of the shoe cabinet. A dull ache bloomed across my back.

"Rachel, I just wanted to ask..."

"Ask what?" Rachels voice shook with rage as she pointed a finger at me. "If you hadn't thrown a fit yesterday and ruined Lucy's birthday, she wouldn't have been in such a terrible mood today! She wouldn't have run away from us at the park!"

"If Brandon hadn't shielded her from that shattered glass, Lucy would be the one in the hospital right now!"

I froze. I didn't understand how Lucy running away at a park miles away was my fault. I had been home all day.

Lucy peeked out from behind Brandon, pointing her little hand at me. "It is your fault! You're a dummy! You always make Mommy mad. All the other kids have smart daddies, and I have you. I hate you!"

The words felt like physical needles piercing my chest.

I knelt down, trying to meet Lucys eyes. "Lucy, Daddy didn't mean to... Daddy saved you once, remember? The truck"

"Shut up!" Rachel screamed, cutting me off.

"Thomas, are you going to hold that accident over our heads for the rest of our lives? Yes, you saved us. But I have spent the last two years bathing you, feeding you, and putting up with you. Haven't I paid my debt?"

She looked at me, her eyes filled with nothing but cold exhaustion.

"I am so sick of this. I am tired of taking care of a giant toddler. I deserve a normal life, a normal family."

The words crashed over me like stones.

So that was it. Caring for me was just paying a debt. She had been sick of me for a very long time.

Brandon let out a soft sigh, placing his uninjured hand on Rachel's shoulder. "Rachel, don't. Tom doesn't understand what he's doing. As long as Lucy is safe, a few stitches don't matter."

Rachel looked up at Brandon, her eyes shining with tears. "I'm so sorry, Brandon. We always drag you into our messes."

Brandon smiled, gently tapping Lucy's nose. "I'd do anything to keep you two safe."

Watching the three of them console one another, I felt like a piece of discarded trash left in the corner of my own home. I stood up, slowly backing away.

"I'm sorry," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "I won't make you mad anymore."

I turned and ran back to my room, locking the door behind me. I crawled under the blankets and pressed my hands over my ears, blocking out the murmur of their voices.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a message from the Professor.

"Graces restoration surgery was a complete success. Are you ready, Thomas?"

Grace was another patient, a young girl who, like me, had suffered severe brain trauma. She was smart again.

I wiped the tears from my face and typed out four words:

"I am ready, Professor."

"Come out and eat," Rachel called, knocking curtly on my door later that evening. Her voice was flat, as if the screaming match from earlier had never happened.

I opened the door and walked out.

The dining table was crowded with dishesslow-roasted ribs, pan-seared salmon, and a pot of rich chicken soup. It was all Brandon's handiwork.

I sat down and reached my fork toward the ribs. They used to be my favorite.

But before my fork could touch the meat, Rachels fork blocked mine.

"The ribs are for Brandon," she said coldly. "He's injured and needs to recover. Don't touch them."

She picked up two large ribs and placed them gently in Brandons bowl.

My hand hovered in the air. I looked at Rachel, then at Brandon, who gave me a performative, apologetic shrug.

"Rachel, come on, let Tom have some," Brandon said smoothly. "I don't need all of this."

"Absolutely not," Rachel countered, her eyes narrowing. "You bled so much for Lucy today. You need to replenish your strength."

She turned back to me, pointing her chin toward a plate of plain sauted greens. "Eat the vegetables. Theyre better for your digestion anyway."

I bit my lip, slowly drawing my fork back, and took a single green leaf. It tasted incredibly bitter.

I remembered how Rachel used to cook ribs for me. She would always pick out the tenderest, most flavorful pieces and slide them onto my plate. "Tommy is a growing boy," she would tease. "You need your protein to stay strong."

Now, I wasn't even allowed a single bone.

Lucy took a sip of her soup, pointing at the pot. "Mommy, I want to give Brandon the chicken drumstick. Brandon is a superhero. He protected me."

Rachel smiled, brushing a hand through Lucy's hair. "That's very sweet of you, baby."

Lucy fished out the drumstick, dropped it into Brandon's bowl, and then shot me a disdainful look. "Daddy is a coward. He doesn't do anything but hide in his room."

I kept my head down, chewing on plain white rice.

I wasn't a coward.

The day the truck came hurtling toward us, I hadn't run away. I had pushed them both to safety. My skull had fractured, and there had been so much blood. It had hurt so bad.

But Lucy didn't remember any of that.

After dinner, Rachel left me in the living room to watch TV while she went to wash the dishes. Brandon sat on the rug, helping Lucy with a puzzle.

I sat on a small wooden stool in the corner, watching them from the shadows.

Brandon suddenly turned his head. His eyes locked onto mine, and a cruel, tiny smirk touched the corner of his lips. He leaned slightly closer, dropping his voice so low that only I could hear.

"You know, Thomas," he murmured, "Rachel told me last night that marrying you was the biggest mistake of her life."

My fingers dug into my jeans. "You're lying," I whispered.

Brandon let out a soft, mocking chuckle. "Lying? Look at the way she looks at you. Theres nothing left but disgust. Youre just a heavy, useless anchor. Without you, the three of us would be a perfect family."

"A perfect family." He meant him, Rachel, and Lucy.

I stood up, glaring at him. "This is my house."

Seeing my anger, Brandons eyes gleamed. He suddenly gripped his bandaged arm and let out a sharp cry of pain. "Ow! Tom, please don't push me! My stitches!"

He threw himself backward onto the sofa, wincing dramatically.

Rachel burst out of the kitchen instantly. "What happened?!"

She saw Brandon clutching his arm, and her face turned incredibly dark. She marched over and stood directly in front of me.

"Thomas, have you lost your mind?!"

"I didn't push him," I shook my head, desperate to explain. "He's lying! He was talking to me and then he just threw himself down!"

Rachel didn't believe a word. She raised her hand.

"Slap."

The force of the blow snapped my head to the side. A sharp, burning sting flared across my cheek.

The living room went dead silent.

Lucy shivered, burying her face in Brandon's chest.

I held my burning cheek, staring at Rachel.

Once, if I so much as scraped my knee, she would cry from worry. Now, she had slapped me across the face for the sake of a stranger.

"Thomas, when did you become so malicious?" Rachels voice shook with disgust. "Brandon has done nothing but help us, and you try to hurt him? Go to your room. Do not come out until I tell you to."

I didn't cry.

I just looked at her, studying her face with absolute intensity. I wanted to commit this version of her to memoryso that after the surgery, I could wipe it away completely.

"Okay," I said quietly. "I'll go."

That night, Rachel didn't call me for dinner.

I was too hungry to sleep, so I sat on the floor and began packing my things.

There wasn't much to take. A few clothes, a pair of sneakers, and two photographs.

One was taken before the accidentme in a white lab coat, looking sharp, capable, and intelligent.

The other was a family portrait taken shortly after Lucy was born. Rachel was smiling so beautifully.

I stared at the family portrait for a long time. Then, very slowly, I tore it down the middle.

I threw the half containing Rachel and Lucy into the trash can.

I only needed the version of myself that was whole.

At dawn, my phone lit up with a message from the Professor.

"Your flight is booked for 3:00 PM. A car will pick you up at 1:00 PM."

I typed back a simple: "Okay."

I walked out of my room. Rachel and Brandon had already gone to work, and Lucy was at school. The apartment was hollow and quiet.

I went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. There were plenty of ingredients.

After a moment of hesitation, I pulled out some tomatoes, eggs, and a cut of pork.

These were the only two dishes I knew how to make.

Tomato scrambled eggs and stir-fried pork with peppers.

After I had lost my mind, I had spent months trying to learn how to cook them just to surprise Rachel. I used to burn my fingers constantly back then, and Rachel would always tear the spatula from my hands in a panic.

"Tommy, you don't need to cook. Ill cook for you for the rest of our lives."

She had broken her promise.

I clumsily chopped the ingredients, turned on the stove, and began to cook. A drop of hot oil splattered onto the back of my hand, leaving a stinging red blister.

Ignoring the pain, I plated the two dishes and set them on the dining table.

Then I took out a piece of paper. I wanted to write something, but my child-mind only knew how to write my own name.

In crooked, childish letters, I wrote:

"Thomas is gone."

I slid the paper under the plate.

At exactly 1:00 PM, a car horn honked outside.

I slung my small black backpack over my shoulder and walked out of the door.

When the door clicked shut behind me, I didn't look back.

Sitting in the backseat of the car on the way to the airport, I watched the city skyline recede.

Goodbye, Rachel.

Goodbye, Lucy.

At 6:00 PM, Rachel walked through the front door, holding Lucys hand. Brandon followed behind them, carrying a small bakery box.

"Rachel, let's go out for dinner tonight to celebrate my promotion," Brandon suggested as he kicked off his shoes.

Rachel scanned the quiet living room. "Why isn't Thomas out here watching TV?"

She frowned and walked further inside. "Probably still throwing a tantrum in his room. His temper has been getting so strange lately."

As she approached the dining table, she stopped. On it sat two cold plates of food.

Tomato scrambled eggs and stir-fried pork.

Beside them was a slip of paper. She pulled it out and stared at the uneven, struggling handwriting.

"Thomas is gone."

Rachel stared at it for a second, then let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "Unbelievable. Hes actually trying to run away now. Hes getting bolder."

Brandon walked over, looking at the plates with disgust. "Look at this mess. The eggs are practically burnt. Who could eat this?"

"Rachel, let's just throw it out. It's an eyesore."

Rachel nodded, picking up the plates and walking into the kitchen.

With two heavy thuds, the food I had spent all morning preparing was scraped into the garbage bin.

Rachel washed her hands, walked down the hallway, and pushed open my bedroom door.

"Thomas, stop playing these childish games. Get out of"

The words died in her throat.

The room was completely empty. The closet doors were wide open, and several hangers were bare. On the nightstand sat my medical file.

Rachel walked over and picked it up. Underneath it lay a crisp, white surgical consent form.

At the top, the details were clearly printed:

"Patient: Thomas."

"Procedure: Irreversible Selective Neurosurgery (Memory Ablation and Emotional Severance)."

"Warning: This procedure will result in permanent, irreversible memory loss and emotional detachment."

Rachel's hand began to tremble. Her eyes locked onto the words "permanent, irreversible memory loss", and her breath caught.