I kept forgetting where I'd parked my car. I thought something was wrong with me until security footage proved my memory wasn't the problem. Someone had been moving my car! After weeks of questioning myself, I decided the person behind it needed to learn a harsh lesson.
I have always been a person who loses things.
My phone, my keys, my train of thought halfway up the stairs.
Tristan was the opposite. He knew which drawer held the batteries and where the passports lived.
When I couldn't find my phone, he'd check the pocket of my blue coat before I'd even thought of it.
"How do you do that?" I'd ask.
He'd hand it over, and I'd kiss him.
But then I started losing my car at the supermarket, and I worried there might be something seriously wrong with me.
The first time, I found it three rows from where I was sure I'd parked.
The second time, I wandered for 15 minutes, pushing a cart with melting ice cream in it.
One afternoon in March, I searched so long that I called Tristan.
I was standing beside a cart return, trying not to cry where strangers could see.
"Tristan, I'm scared. What if something's wrong with me? Early dementia, or worse."
"Breathe," he said. "You'll find it. Retrace your steps."
I stayed on the phone until I could speak normally.
Afterward, when I finally spotted the SUV, I sat behind the wheel and wiped my face before driving home.
I began leaving early for shopping trips so I'd have time to search afterward.
One evening, I told him how much it was worrying me.
"Maybe I should see a doctor, just in case this is something serious."
He laughed softly. "You're fine, love. You've always been like this. Just take a picture next time."
I leaned against him. He wasn't worried, and he'd known me for years.
Taking a photograph sounded like something I could do instead of spending another evening wondering whether I should see someone.
So that Saturday, I parked beside the B4 cart return and took a clear photograph of my SUV with the sign behind it.
Forty minutes later, B4 was there.
I checked the photograph twice, matching the cart return to the one in front of me. My hand tightened around the cart handle.
There was no wrong row to blame this time.
I started through the lot, pressing my key fob and looking for a flash of blue between the parked vehicles.
A security guard approached.
"Ma'am, are you looking for a blue SUV?"
"You need to come with me."
In the security office, he pulled up the footage. I watched myself park and walk toward the store.
A few minutes later, a man approached my car.
"Wait," I whispered. "Zoom in."
For a moment, I could breathe again. I hadn't imagined where I'd parked.
There he was, opening the driver's door.
But why hadn't he called me? I checked my phone for a missed message, then looked back at the monitor.
Another man stood at the edge of the frame, holding up a phone.
He moved sideways to keep Tristan in view.
Tristan looked toward the phone before pulling out.
Dale followed him, still filming.
I'd gone home and told the man on the screen I was frightened. He'd held me while I wondered what was wrong with me.
Why was he moving my car around when he knew how much this had frightened me?
The guard followed them through the footage.
Tristan parked the car in a different part of the lot then got out. He jogged over to Dale, and they both disappeared out of the frame.
I didn't understand what I'd just seen, but at least I knew where my car was now.
I thanked the guard and went to the car.
Inside the car, I sat for a long time with my hands on the wheel.
I'd been right about B4.
How many of the other times had I been right too?
I reached for my phone and pulled up Tristan's number, but couldn't bring myself to press the call button.
Terrible thoughts cycled through my head.
Did he want me to stop driving?
To start relying on him for everything?
I hated having those thoughts about my husband, but I couldn't make his hand on the car door mean anything else yet.
I needed to hear his explanation when I was standing in front of him.
That evening, after the kids were asleep, I asked Tristan to sit down.
"Did you move my car today?"
"At the supermarket. Did you move it?"
He looked startled, then a smile appeared.
"The security guard showed me."
"Oh, Em." He leaned back.
"You should've called me. It was a prank."
A prank? All that fear and wondering about what terrible motive he might have for hurting me like this, and that was his answer?
"You're telling me... All those times..."
"Oh, don't get upset. It was all in good fun."
There were five recordings.
I stared at the dates while he selected one.
On the screen, I pushed my cart past the same row twice.
Tristan gave a little laugh. "Look, you walked right past it there."
He pointed to the screen.
I remembered that afternoon. I'd been trying to get home before the kids finished school, fighting back tears as I grew more and more desperate.
In the video, I stopped and pressed my fingers to my forehead.
That was the first time I started wondering if this was a sign of early dementia.
He glanced at me, waiting for a smile.
I reached for the phone, my stomach sinking as I opened the video from March.
Surely, it wasn't what I thought it was.
Tristan stood near the pharmacy, my SUV visible behind him.
His voice came out of the speaker.
"Breathe. You'll find it. Retrace your steps."
I paused it. Tears filled my eyes.
"I called you for help, and you were right there... You knew where the car was, and instead of coming clean, you reassured me?"
He looked down at the screen.
I'd thanked him when I got home. Now he was watching the recording as though the funny part hadn't arrived yet.
"I thought something was happening to me," I said.
"I'm sorry it upset you, but it was just a joke..."
And that's when I really got angry.
I looked at the screen, still paused on him standing near my car.
If watching me hadn't made him understand, perhaps hearing someone else say it would.
"Fine. Let's ask the family what they think of your 'joke.'"
His hand closed around the phone.
"Why do we need to drag them into this?"
His resistance encouraged me. Perhaps he knew what they would say.
"Because you refuse to understand that this was NOT funny."
"We don't need everyone getting involved in an argument."
I selected the first clip and shared it to the family group chat before he could say anything else.
I wrote, "This is Em, using Tristan's phone. He moved my car five times without telling me. I thought my memory was getting worse. He says it's a funny prank. Do you agree?"
I sent it and put the phone between us.
I pictured him reading their replies, then finally asking what he could do to make this right.
The first reply made my jaw drop.
I waited. It was only one person. Someone else was typing.
Beth's name appeared next.
I leaned closer. She'd known me for years. Surely she would bring reason back to this conversation.
She wrote, "I would've been frustrated too."
I looked toward Tristan, ready for him to read it.
Then another message followed:
"... But I have to admit this is a good prank."
My face warmed. Then my sister-in-law replied.
"That's not okay, Tris. She was scared."
He glanced at it. Another laughing face appeared below her message.
"See? Even Beth says it's a good prank." He chuckled. "So, it looks like I was right. Now please, stop trying to turn this into a thing."
I'd thought involving them would make him see me.