MY HUSBAND SAID HE LOVED ME AFTER I LOST MY MEMORY—THEN TWO TEENAGERS WATCHED ME COLLAPSE AND EXPOSED THE TERRIFYING TRUTH

I heard her words through the pain, but they made no sense.

My husband was upstairs. He was the one person in this house who could help me. Why would Zipho be afraid of calling him?

Another vicious cramp ripped through my abdomen, cutting off the question before I could ask it.

I curled tighter against the hardwood floor, pressing both hands into my stomach as though I could physically hold whatever was happening inside me together.

“Please,” I whispered. “Help me.”

Karabo was crying now.

She knelt beside me, her hands trembling so badly that she could barely hold her phone.

“Zipho, she's really sick.”

“I can see that!”

“Then what are we supposed to do?”

“Call an ambulance!”

I tried to reach for Karabo's wrist.

“Sphandla,” I managed.

Zipho shook her head so violently that her braids struck her shoulders.

“No, Ndoni. Please trust me. We need somebody from outside this house.”

I wanted to argue.

I wanted to tell her that she was being ridiculous, that Sphandla might be difficult and intimidating, but he was still my husband.

Instead, my body betrayed me.

The room tilted.

A terrible wave of nausea washed over me, followed by a cold sweat that soaked through my silk pajamas.

I had never experienced pain like this.

Even the headaches that had haunted me since my accident seemed insignificant compared with the agony spreading through my stomach.

Karabo finally pressed the emergency number.

She gave the dispatcher our address, stumbling over the words as she explained that I had collapsed and could barely breathe through the pain.

Zipho grabbed a cushion and carefully placed it beneath my head.

“Stay with us,” she whispered.

Her voice sounded different.

Gone was the moody teenager who barely tolerated my questions.

In her place was a frightened young woman who seemed to know something I didn't.

“Zipho,” I whispered. “What's happening?”

She glanced toward the staircase.

Then she bent closer.

“I think somebody did this to you.”

Before I could understand what she meant, footsteps thundered through the hallway.

Sphandla appeared at the entrance to the living room.

For a second, he simply stared.

His eyes moved from my face to my hands clutching my stomach, then to the two girls kneeling beside me.

“What happened?”

Karabo jumped.

“She's sick. She just started screaming.”

Sphandla crossed the room and dropped to his knees.

“Ndoni?”

His voice changed completely.

The confidence I had grown accustomed to disappeared, replaced by something raw and frightened.

“Baby, look at me.”

I tried.

He touched my forehead.

“What's hurting?”

“My stomach.”

“Since when?”

“Just now.”

He glanced toward the dining area.

“What did she eat?”

“Dinner,” Karabo answered. “And cake.”

His expression hardened.

“What cake?”

“The cake we brought,” Zipho replied.

Something passed between them.

I couldn't identify it, but I felt it.

Sphandla's gaze sharpened.

“Where did you get it?”

“From the bakery.”

“Which bakery?”

“Why does that matter?” Zipho demanded.

“Answer the question.”

I flinched at his tone.

“Stop,” I whispered.

He looked down immediately.

“Ndoni, sweetheart, I'm trying to figure out what's wrong.”

His hand brushed the hair away from my damp forehead.

I wanted that touch to comfort me.

Instead, Zipho's warning kept repeating inside my head.

Don't call him.

The distant sound of an approaching siren interrupted us.

Sphandla looked toward Karabo.

“Who called an ambulance?”

“I did.”

“Without telling me?”

“She needed help!”

For one terrifying moment, nobody spoke.

Then he stood.

“Get her medical file from the bedroom,” he ordered.

Karabo didn't move.

“I'll get it,” Zipho said.

She hurried upstairs before he could object.

Sphandla returned his attention to me.

“It's okay. I'm here.”

I wanted to believe him.

God, I wanted to believe him.

But as another wave of pain struck, I remembered something from earlier that morning.

My medication.

The little white bottle beside the bathroom sink.

The headaches that began shortly after I woke up each day.

The strange bitter taste that sometimes lingered in my throat after swallowing my capsules.

I had dismissed it all because I trusted the people around me.

Now I wasn't certain what to trust.

The paramedics arrived minutes later.

Everything happened quickly after that.

A stretcher.

A blood pressure cuff.

Questions I struggled to answer.

Sphandla followed us outside, insisting that he was coming in the ambulance.

One paramedic gently asked him to ride separately because they needed room to work.

He looked furious.

Then he leaned down and kissed my forehead.

“I'll be right behind you.”

I tried to smile.

As they wheeled me toward the ambulance, Zipho appeared beside the driveway holding a small plastic bag.

Inside was my medication bottle.

She slipped it into the paramedic's hand.

“Please give this to the doctor,” she whispered.

Sphandla didn't see her.

But I did.

And even through the agony, I noticed something else.

Zipho looked relieved when the ambulance doors closed between us and my husband.

At the hospital, doctors rushed me into an examination room.

An IV went into my arm.

Blood was drawn.

Machines beeped above my head as nurses asked questions about my medical history.

I knew almost none of the answers.

That was the cruelest part of losing my memory.

I couldn't tell them what medications I had taken six weeks earlier.

I couldn't remember previous illnesses.

I couldn't even explain why I had a husband who seemed terrified whenever someone mentioned my past.

Eventually, the pain medication began working.

My breathing steadied.

A physician named Dr. Anika Naidoo pulled a chair beside my bed.

“Ndoni, you're experiencing bleeding in your upper digestive tract. We're stabilizing you, and our specialists are preparing to investigate the source.”

My mouth went dry.

“Am I dying?”

“We're taking this very seriously, but you're in the right place. You're responding to treatment.”

I closed my eyes.

A few minutes passed before she spoke again.

“There's something else I need to ask you.”

I looked at her.

“Who manages your medication at home?”

“My husband arranged everything after my accident.”

“Do you know what you were prescribed?”

I shook my head.

She glanced at the plastic bag on the counter.

“The capsules you brought don't appear to match the medication listed in your discharge records. We need laboratory testing to confirm exactly what's inside them.”

A cold sensation spread through me.

“What does that mean?”

“It means we have questions that need answers.”

She hesitated.

“Given your recent head injury and memory loss, I also need to ask whether you feel safe at home.”

Before I could answer, my phone vibrated on the bedside table.

An unknown number had sent a message.

NDONI, IF YOU ARE IN THE HOSPITAL, DON'T LET JASON TAKE YOU HOME. I KNOW WHAT HAPPENED BEFORE YOUR ACCIDENT. — BHEJANE

My breath caught.