I didn’t say a word.
He kept going, his voice shaking just enough to sound convincing. “Please don’t stay mad at me. I’ll do better, I promise. You mean everything to me.”
It sounded real. It always did. His words were soft, his eyes were full of guilt, his hands trembled like he was hurting too. Anyone else would’ve believed him.
But I didn’t.
Because I could still hear the echo of him calling her name first. Because I still remembered how he ran out carrying her while I bled on the floor.
“I’m tired,” I whispered, pulling my hand out of his.
I closed my eyes and turned my head away. I couldn’t keep pretending.
…..
FOR THE NEXT few days, he didn’t leave my side. He played the role perfectly.
He brought soup every morning, holding the spoon to my lips as if he was afraid I’d break. He followed me to every checkup, asking questions, nodding like a dutiful husband. When I shifted in my sleep, he was instantly awake, asking if I needed water, or another pillow, or his hand to hold.
Even the nurses started whispering. “You’re so lucky,” one said once when she thought I couldn’t hear. “Your husband really loves you.”
If only she knew.