**Diary Entry – A Stranger Claimed to Be My Fiancé After I Lost My Memory — But My Dog’s Reaction Told the Truth**
You never expect disaster to strike. It was a typical evening—I’d been out with a mate in Manchester, driving home with the radio on, singing along without a care. Then, in an instant, everything changed. A car swerved round a bend and smashed into me. The impact was the last thing I remembered.
I woke in hospital to doctors telling me I’d been in a coma for ten days. “You’re lucky,” they said. “It could’ve been worse.” But luck didn’t feel real.
Partial amnesia had stolen chunks of my past. I remembered my family, my closest friends, my dog. But my job? Gone. My address? A blur, though I could picture the house. And him—the man the doctors said had barely left my side—was a stranger.
“Emma,” he said, “it’s me, Oliver. Your fiancé.”
I stared blankly.
“Why does she remember everyone but me?” Oliver asked the doctor.
“Memory loss can be selective,” came the reply.
“We’ve been together eighteen months. We were planning our wedding. What now?”
“Show her photos. Talk about your life together. She fell for you once—it could happen again.”
So Oliver tried. He brought pictures, gifts, stories of our first date in London, our flat in Bristol. But nothing sparked recognition.
Mum was no help. “You never mentioned him!” she scolded.
“I don’t *remember*,” I snapped.
Finally, I was discharged. Oliver drove me home—our home, he insisted. All I cared about was seeing Baxter, my Jack Russell.
The moment the door opened, Baxter lunged at Oliver, snarling like a guard dog.
“Get him off!” Oliver shouted, shielding himself.
“Baxter! Here!” I ordered. He obeyed, but the second I neared Oliver, the growling resumed.
“He’s never done this before,” I said.
“He’s a dog. Who knows why he does anything?” Oliver shrugged.
Something felt off. Later, I asked for my phone. “Smashed in the crash,” Oliver said. “I’ll replace it tomorrow.”
I mentioned meeting Sophie, my best friend. “Not yet,” Oliver said. “You need rest.”
“The doctor never said that.”
“Trust me.”
That night, I slept in the guest room with Baxter. Oliver’s claim that we “always left him outside” was a lie—I’d never have done that.
The new phone Oliver gave me had a different number. No social media access. I was trapped.
Then, a knock at the door. Sophie.
“He wouldn’t let me near you,” she said. “Emma… Oliver doesn’t exist. I’ve checked. There’s no record of him.”
Before I could process it, a courier arrived with a marriage contract. The terms? If we divorced, Oliver got half my inheritance—a fortune from my late grandmother.
“Bloody con artist!” Sophie hissed.
We called the police. When Oliver returned, Baxter’s furious barking gave him away. The officers arrested him on the spot.
“His real name’s Nigel,” one cop told me. “Worked at a care home. Your grandmother stayed there. He must’ve targeted you.”
As the squad car pulled away, Baxter licked my hand. Without him, I might’ve fallen for the lie.
**Lesson learned: Trust your instincts—and your dog.**
