He Forgot My Allergy, So I Left Him For Good

Four years into my marriage with Ethan Miller, he brought a seafood pizza to the table.

I looked at it and said, "I'm allergic to shrimp, remember?"

His hand, holding the fork, froze.

"Wait, aren't you allergic to mangoes?"

Never.

On the top right corner of the fridge, there was still a sticky note he had written himself: "Hazel's Allergies: Shrimp, Penicillin, Pollen."

It had been there for four years. The corners were curled. He opened the fridge at least five times a day; all he had to do was look down.

The person allergic to mangoes wasn't me.