"The Forgotten Conversation"

I stood in the kitchen, heart racing.
"You said you'd be home by seven," I told him, trying to keep my voice calm. “I waited for dinner. I even called you.”

He blinked slowly, leaned against the counter, and shrugged.
"I never said seven," he said flatly.
"You did,” I insisted. “You said it yesterday when we were talking about the kids. You even said, ‘I’ll be back in time to help with bedtime.’”

He tilted his head, that slight smirk forming.
"I think you’re remembering wrong again. You always twist things.”

There it was.

I felt that familiar rush of heat in my chest — confusion, frustration, then shame. Was I remembering wrong? Did I mix up the conversation? Was I overreacting? Again?

“I’m not twisting anything,” I said softly. “I just…” My voice trailed off. I didn’t even know what I was trying to say anymore. Just that I felt hurt, dismissed, crazy.

He let out a sigh, as if he were the one under pressure. “This is what I mean. You make a big deal out of everything.”

I cleaned up dinner in silence. He turned on the TV like nothing happened.
No fight. No yelling.
Just a quiet dismissal of my memory, my feelings, and my reality. Again.

He didn’t apologize for being late.
He didn’t acknowledge the conversation we both knew happened.

That’s how it works.
It’s not dramatic. It’s not explosive.
It’s erasure — little by little — until you doubt your memory, your voice, and your right to feel anything at all.

Carlin