Twenty years ago, on my wedding day, I discovered my fiancé was having an affair with my maid of honor. I canceled the wedding on the spot. In an act of monstrous collusion, our families—our own flesh and blood—had me committed to a psychiatric facility. "She’s raving mad!" they declared. "She’s slandering her fiancé and her own sister!" In that place, I was subjected to electroshocks, force-fed medication, and often strapped down and beaten. I endured that life for two decades. Twenty years later, I finally walked free. But my hair was completely white. My teeth were mostly gone. I looked utterly broken, like a woman easily seventy years old. I hid myself away in a small regional assisted living center, working as a patient aide under an assumed name. I genuinely believed I would never have to see any of them again. Until one day, my former fiancé arrived. He was with a little girl—the daughter he’d had with my sister. They were there to visit his mother. When he saw me, his entire body froze. His eyes immediately welled up. "Eliza?! God, is that you? I thought you were gone..." I kept my head down, scrubbing the floor. I said nothing. I didn't want to acknowledge his existence. The doctor had just told me I had late-stage Alzheimer’s disease. At most, I had three months of coherent memory left. After those three months, all the hatred would be gone. The twenty years they stole from me would be wiped clean. 1 I gripped the washcloth, my hand trembling violently. Hot water splashed out, scalding the back of my hand, but I felt nothing. Patty, the head aide, snatched the cloth away, slamming it into the basin. Water splattered across my face. Her voice was sharp and cruel. "Ruth, you move like a zombie! You’re useless!" "If you can’t manage this, what good are you?" I kept my head down, silent. "Hurry up! Next patient!" Mechanically, I picked up a mop and headed toward the next bed. Just then, a commotion erupted at the doorway. A man in a bespoke suit walked in, leading a little girl dressed in an expensive party dress. The man was handsome and towering; the girl was beautiful and perfectly adorable. They were glaringly out of place in this room saturated with the smell of disinfectant and old age. I instinctively shrank back, trying to melt into the shadows. But the man saw me. He stared, riveted, for a full fifteen seconds. Then, his eyes turned instantly red, and his voice cracked as he spoke my name. "Eliza? Is it really you?" The blood in my veins solidified. I recognized that voice. It was Liam Maxwell. The man who had personally signed the papers that delivered me to hell twenty years ago. I lowered my head and scrubbed the floor with all my strength. My voice came out coarse and grating. "You have the wrong person. My name is Ruth Miller." He strode over quickly and grabbed my wrist. His grip was strong, squeezing my bones until they ached. "Eliza, I know it’s you! Don’t try to hide!" I struggled to pull away, and the mop handle clattered onto the linoleum. The little girl beside him immediately shrieked. "Dad! That old lady is gross! She touched me!" Liam flinched as if burned, releasing my wrist instantly. He turned to console his daughter, his voice melting with tenderness. "It’s okay, Calla-girl, it’s not dirty. Daddy will take you to wash your hands right now." Patty rushed over like a whirlwind. She didn't spare me a glance, instead bowing profusely toward Liam. "Mr. Maxwell, please don’t be angry. This old woman has no manners." Then, she whirled around and slapped me across the face. The smack echoed in the hallway, and my cheek instantly began to swell. "How dare you serve a distinguished guest like this?! That’s three days’ pay, gone!" Liam frowned, holding up a hand to stop Patty before she could strike again. "It’s fine. Don’t hit her." He looked at me, a flicker of guilt in his eyes. "Eliza, I know it’s you. We need to talk, later." I ignored him, bent down, picked up the mop, and limped toward the supply closet. Behind me, I heard his determined voice. "I will come back every day until you agree to speak with me." I closed the supply closet door, shutting out his voice. Leaning against the cold wall, my entire body was shaking. That night, I retrieved a worn, rusty tin box from beneath my cot. Inside, there was only one sheet of paper. My diagnosis. The flashlight beam focused on the words, stinging my eyes. Alzheimer’s Disease, Late Stage. The doctor said I had three months of memory left, at best. Three months until I forgot everything. Forgot the twenty years of electroshocks, force-feeding, and restraints. Forgot every ugly face. Forgot the blood debt they owed me. With a trembling hand, I wrote the first line on the back of the diagnostic report. "Let every single one of them pay the price!"
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