Blindfolded 'Brain Training' Games Were Part of My Rehab, but When My Husband Tried to Trick Me, I Turned the Tables on Him – Story of the Day

During rehab, my husband made recovery feel like a team effort, until the day he brought out a blindfold, a pen, and a piece of paper, and told me to practice signing my name. I trusted him… but when I tried to peek at the paper, he snapped. I realized then that something was very wrong.

The car accident had kept me in the hospital for six weeks. Six weeks of beeping machines, nurses checking on me every hour, and food that tasted like cardboard.

When I finally came home, I just stood in the doorway, absorbing the familiar sights and smells. It felt like I'd been gone for ages.

"Welcome home, Barb," Tom said, wrapping his arms around me from behind. His voice was soft, careful, like I might break if he spoke too loudly.

The house looked perfect. There was a bouquet of fresh flowers on the dining table, and Tom had even arranged the throw pillows on the couch. When I walked into the kitchen, I saw he'd even fixed that porch light I'd been nagging him about for months.

"You didn't have to do all this," I said, running my fingers along the spotless counter.

"Of course I did. You've been through hell, Barb. The least I could do was make sure you came home to something nice."

That should have made me happy, right? But seeing everything arranged so perfectly, a weird feeling settled over me, like I was looking at a magazine spread instead of my own life.

I took a deep breath and told myself to let it go. Tom was right — I had been through hell. I could've died in that car accident, and even after weeks of rehab, my body wasn't what it was before.

It was perfectly natural that things would feel strange.

Tom took care of everything. He helped me shower, cooked all my meals, and even laid out my clothes in the morning.

I was grateful, but I also felt like a child.

"I've been reading about recovery," he said one evening, settling down next to me on the couch with a box I'd never seen before. "Turns out there are exercises we can do to help rewire your brain after trauma."

Inside the box were foam puzzles, memory games, and little plastic shapes in bright colors. It looked like something you'd give a kindergartner.

"Tom, I don't think I need—"

"The doctor said cognitive exercises would help," he interrupted, pulling out a set of cards. "Trust me, Barb. I know what's best for you right now."

So I played along. What else was I going to do?

Tom seemed so excited about helping me get better, and honestly, after spending weeks feeling helpless in that hospital bed, it was nice to feel like I was making progress.

We did the puzzles every night after dinner; memory games where I had to repeat sequences of colors, and matching exercises that made my head hurt.

Tom would sit across from me with a focused expression.

"You're doing great," he'd say, but his voice sounded too clinical for a husband talking to his wife.

Two weeks after I came home, Tom brought out something new: a black silk blindfold.

"What's that for?" I asked.

"It's a new challenge — guessing objects by touch. It's supposed to enhance your other senses and help with neural pathways."

The blindfold made me uncomfortable, but I shrugged and let him tie it around my head.

"Okay, first object," he said, placing something small and smooth in my palm.

"Lip balm," I said immediately.

"Good! Next one."

It was a remote control. The next object was my keys, and the last was a coffee mug. I got them all right, and Tom cheered me on like I was performing miracles instead of basic human functions.

"See? You're better than you think you are," he said as he untied the blindfold.

***

Two weeks later, Tom appeared in the living room with the blindfold and a clipboard.

"New challenge tonight," he announced, setting the clipboard on the coffee table face down.

"What kind of challenge?"

"Signature practice. To test your muscle memory."

I thought I'd heard him wrong. "You want me to practice my signature? Why?"

"The accident affected your fine motor skills, Barb," he said slowly, like he was talking to a child. "We should make sure you can still sign documents properly. Legal stuff, you know?"

"I don't know, Tom. My signature wasn't that bad when I signed my discharge papers at the hospital, and it's not like I'll ever need to sign anything blindfolded."

I laughed, but Tom didn't join me. He was already moving toward me with the blindfold, and I found myself sitting still while he tied it around my head.

"Okay," he said, taking my hand and guiding it to the table. "There's a pen here, and a piece of paper. Just sign where I tell you to."

I felt the smooth surface of the paper under my palm, and the weight of the pen in my fingers. I raised one hand to lift the edge of the blindfold to peek at the paper. It just felt wrong to sign something I hadn't looked at, blank or not.

But Tom's hand closed around mine.

"No cheating." His voice was unusually sharp.

"I just want to see what I'm signing," I replied. "It feels strange not to look."

"It's just a blank page!" he snapped. "For practice! Don't you trust me?"

Of course, I trusted him. Tom and I had been married for years, and even now, when my life had been turned upside down, he stood by me.

"I do trust you," I said slowly. "I just want to look at the paper first, then I'll—"

He pulled the pen out of my hand and yanked the clipboard away from me. "You clearly don't, Barbara. After everything I've done for you…"

I sat there in stunned silence and listened to Tom's heavy footsteps as he stormed out of the room, leaving me alone with the blindfold still tied around my head.

When I finally pulled it off, my hands were shaking.

What had just happened? I just wanted to see the paper… it was just an old habit. Doesn't everyone have the concept of "don't sign anything unless you know exactly what you're signing" ingrained in them? Even if it was just a blank piece of paper, I needed to see it, didn't I?

Maybe I was overreacting, but I wasn't the only one. What kind of husband gets that angry about his wife wanting to see what she's signing?

***

Tom didn't mention the signature game again. In fact, he barely spoke to me at all.

He didn't make me my morning tea or play evening puzzles with me either. There were no gentle touches or concerned questions about how I was feeling.

When I tried to bring it up, he turned it back on me every time.

"You don't trust me, Barbara. After everything I've done for you," he'd say.

Round and round we went until I started questioning myself. Was I being paranoid? Maybe I wasn't thinking clearly.

But the more I replayed that night, the less sense it made. Why would he get so defensive over a blank page? Why did he storm out instead of just showing me the paper?

Three days after our fight, while Tom was out running errands, I walked into his home office.

I'd never snooped through his things before, but desperation makes you do things you never thought you would.

The top drawers were full of the usual stuff: bills, pens, and random cables for electronics we probably didn't own anymore.

The bottom drawer was locked.

In 20 years of marriage, Tom had never locked anything away from me.

I searched the room and eventually found the key behind the printer. I unlocked the drawer and found the clipboard stuffed inside.

Clipped to it was a document that made my blood turn to ice. "Durable General Power of Attorney," it said at the top in bold letters.

I read the whole thing twice before it really sank in. This document would give Tom complete control over my life.

He'd have control over my bank accounts, my property, and my medical decisions. Everything. As if that wasn't bad enough, it had a section specifying that it would be effective immediately upon signing.

This was what he'd wanted me to sign that night. This was his game.

I sank into his desk chair, holding the paper in my trembling hands. He'd blindfolded me and told me it was blank so I'd sign away my entire life without knowing it.

That sort of coercion would invalidate the document, but can you imagine trying to explain that in court? "Your honor, my husband blindfolded me and tricked me into signing this by telling me it was a fun brain exercise."

They'd think I was crazy.

I sat there and cried until my heart felt empty, and then I got angry. He'd tried to steal my life, and I knew exactly how to turn his own game against him!

I spent three days planning. Tom sulked and avoided me, probably thinking I'd forgotten about our fight and things would go back to normal.

He had no idea what was coming.

On the fourth night, after we'd eaten dinner in tense silence, I made my move.

"Maybe we should try your signature game again," I said sweetly.

Tom's eyes lit up like he'd won the lottery.

"Really? You want to try again?"

"I think I overreacted the other night. But maybe you could go first this time? It would make me feel better about the whole thing."

He practically bounced out of his chair. "Of course, Barb. Whatever makes you comfortable."

I pulled out the blindfold and tied it carefully around his eyes. Then I placed the pen in his hand and set the papers my lawyer had prepared in front of him.

I pulled out my phone and started an audio recording.

"So you'll sign this paper for me, Tom?" I asked clearly, making sure my voice would carry on the recording.

"Yes, Barb. Just give me the pen already."

I guided his hand to the signature line and watched as he signed his name.

"There," he said, untying the blindfold. "Happy now?"

"You have no idea," I replied.

I lifted the Spousal Consent to Divorce Terms document off the table, holding it up so he could see exactly what he'd just signed.

The color drained from his face. "You tricked me!"

"The same way you planned to trick me into signing a General Power of Attorney," I said calmly, holding up my phone. "But good luck proving it. I recorded you agreeing to sign."

"I wanted you to sign that for your own good!" He rose so suddenly, his chair toppled to the floor. "The accident changed you, Barb. Body and mind, you'll never be the same—"

"Don't you dare try to justify it, Tom," I cut him off. "That wasn't a medical proxy, or some conditional power of attorney. That document crossed every line, and you know it! You wouldn't have tried to trick me into signing it if you didn't"

I walked away then, and left him standing there in our kitchen, completely outmaneuvered by the woman he'd thought was broken.

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