After 25 years of marriage, I thought I knew every quirk and flaw in Doug’s DNA. He’s the kind of man who brushes his teeth with Icy Hot and loses his glasses while wearing them. But nothing prepared me for the moment he buttered his bagel, looked up, and said, “Thanks, Jessica.” Jessica? I froze mid-coffee pour. I’m Linda. I’ve always been Linda. The name hung in the air like a betrayal wrapped in cream cheese. Doug didn’t even notice. But I did. And I wasn’t about to let it slide—not after two and a half decades of loyalty.
I didn’t confront him immediately. I opened my Notes app and typed “JESSICA???” in all caps. Then I began my investigation—checking receipts, scanning his contacts, even snooping through his Civil War documentaries. I found an old yearbook with Jessica circled in red. “Most Likely to Marry a Professor.” Doug’s superlative? “Most Likely to Lose His Keys and His Mind.” Fitting. I built a flowchart, a crime board, and even considered a PowerPoint titled “WHO IS JESSICA?” I wasn’t spiraling—I was strategizing. Because when your husband calls you by another woman’s name, you don’t just ask. You interrogate.
When I finally confronted him, I laid out my evidence like a detective. Doug blinked, laughed, and said Jessica used to steal his pudding cups in high school. He’d seen her name in a reunion post the night before and it must’ve slipped out. “Are you jealous?” he asked. I stared, then bit into his bagel. “And?” I said through sesame seeds. He wisely dropped the subject. But I wasn’t done. I renamed our trivia team “Team Jessica” and watched him flinch. Petty? Maybe. Satisfying? Absolutely.
Later, we talked—really talked. Doug admitted he’d been feeling nostalgic, like he was drifting. I understood. Our daughter had moved out, the dog preferred snacks over cuddles, and life had become a series of to-do lists. We laughed, cried, and remembered why we chose each other. He confessed he didn’t even like pudding anymore. I forgave him—not because he deserved it, but because love is messy, and sometimes, it slips out as the wrong name. But I made sure he knew: I’m Linda. And I’m unforgettable.
The next morning, I served him breakfast and said, “Here you go, Gregory.” He paused, fork mid-air. “Heeey!” I sipped my coffee like it was a vintage Cabernet. “Exactly.” He squinted. “You’re going to do this for a while, aren’t you?” “Oh, Gregory,” I said sweetly, “you have no idea.” Two weeks later, at trivia night, the host called out “Team Jessica.” I snorted. Doug flinched. Our daughter mouthed “therapy.” But I wasn’t mad anymore. I was amused. And that’s progress.
Doug may forget names, but he never forgets to warm my car seat or stock my favorite tea. He once sat through crime dramas while I had the flu, even though he hates them. He’s flawed, forgetful, and occasionally infuriating. But he remembers me—my quirks, my moods, my childhood nickname. And if he ever says “Jessica” again, I’ve still got the yearbook. And maybe a shovel. Just kidding. (Probably.)
