It all started with one little word: “Forget.”
When I first met James, I fell in love with how effortlessly he was able to recall details about everything and everyone. He would remember the names of people we’d met once, or the fact that I liked my coffee with two sugars and a splash of cream. He remembered the date of our first kiss, the scent of the perfume I wore on our wedding day, and the name of the dog we briefly fostered when we lived in Chicago. To me, James’s memory was part of the magic that made him… him.
But that magic? It was starting to fade.
It wasn’t a sudden change, but rather a slow, creeping realization. It started with small things: he’d forget to pick up groceries after I’d text him a reminder. Then, he’d miss an important dinner with my parents because he’d “forgotten” we had plans. At first, I chalked it up to stress at work. But then there was that day.
We were at a family barbecue, and James was chatting with my brother when I noticed him looking at his phone, scrolling aimlessly. His conversation with Eric had stalled, and he was no longer paying attention to me or the moment we were in. I could feel my irritation bubbling up, but I didn’t want to cause a scene. So, I waited until the next morning.
“James,” I said, over coffee, “you’ve been forgetting things lately. Important things.”
He looked up from his phone, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“Like, last night. You were completely checked out at the barbecue. You didn’t even notice when my aunt was telling her story. Or that you promised to help my brother fix his car and then didn’t show up.”
He sighed, clearly irritated. “I didn’t ‘forget,’ I just… wasn’t feeling it. I’m tired, okay?”
I didn’t respond. I felt hurt, but more than that, I felt a little desperate. Desperate for him to see what was happening, for him to take responsibility. But instead of apologizing, he snapped back, “I’m not perfect, alright? I don’t need a lecture every time I make a mistake.”
That was the moment it hit me. James was no longer the attentive, thoughtful husband I married. He had slipped into a version of himself that was detached, indifferent, and conveniently forgetful. The “forgetting” was his excuse, his way of avoiding responsibility. It was easier to forget than to admit his faults. It hurt more than I wanted to admit.
I didn’t get mad. Instead, I decided to get even.
I knew James had always been a creature of habit. His routines were as predictable as the sunrise. He got up at 6 a.m. every day to work out, had the same breakfast every morning (two eggs, toast with avocado, and black coffee), and watched the same crime documentaries every night before bed. He was so regimented that I could practically set my watch by his movements.
So, I set out to mess with his schedule — but in a way that would be so subtle, so unnoticed, that he’d never even suspect it was me. It wasn’t about revenge, at least not in the traditional sense. It was more about getting his attention, showing him how it felt to be ignored.
I started small: moving his coffee cup just a little to the left on the kitchen counter, just enough to throw off his habit. I switched out the toothpaste for a brand he didn’t like. The real fun began when I started hiding his keys in the most obvious places. The night before, I’d place them right on the shelf where he always kept them, but the next morning? Gone. Not a single trace.
The first time he said anything, his frustration was palpable. “Have you seen my keys? Where the hell are they?”
I shrugged, trying to hide my grin. “I don’t know, honey. You’re always so good at remembering things. Maybe you’ve just forgotten?”
It felt so good, in a wicked way, to watch him scramble, to see him squinting in confusion, searching the house like a madman. But the real kicker was the day he texted me from work: “Did you switch the settings on my phone? I can’t find anything, and my calendar’s messed up.”
I pretended to be clueless, playing my part. “Oh, no, I haven’t touched it. Maybe you forgot you changed something?”
For the first time in months, I saw the spark of recognition in his eyes. He looked at me differently, like he was piecing something together, but he didn’t say anything.
That weekend, he finally caved. “I don’t know what’s going on with me, but it feels like I’m losing control of everything. I’m sorry.”
I didn’t rush to forgive him, though. Instead, I leaned back, enjoying the silence between us.
“You’re right,” I said. “Maybe you’ve just forgotten.”
It was a moment of clarity. He had finally noticed. And just like that, I didn’t need to get even anymore. I didn’t need the revenge I thought I wanted. What I wanted — what I needed — was for him to realize that the small things matter. That paying attention is more than just remembering birthdays or anniversaries. It’s about showing up, being present, and noticing the world around you.
He took my hand, and I could see that he understood. He had gotten the message.
Sometimes, getting even isn’t about big gestures. It’s about making someone realize just how much they’ve taken you for granted — and how much they stand to lose if they don’t change.
