Brad was famous for how much he loved me. Everyone knew it.
During my entire pregnancy, he'd cooked me a different meal every single day, never repeating a dish. When my body ached from carrying the baby, no matter how late he got home or how exhausted he was, he'd massage me until I fell asleep. The day I went into labor, he'd paced outside the delivery room like a man losing his mind.
After the baby was born, everyone crowded around the newborn, laughing and cooing. Everyone except Brad. He'd gripped my hand and cried so hard his nose was running.
"I'm sorry, babe. I'm so sorry you had to go through that."
During my recovery, he'd turned down every work obligation and stayed home with his mother to look after me and the baby. Jean handled the housework during the day. Brad took over feedings, diaper changes, and baths. He'd even moved into the guest room with the baby at night so I could sleep through undisturbed.
A husband who treated me like I hung the moon—how could he possibly be the man in that post?
I steadied myself and asked, trying to sound casual:
"Isn't Mom in good health, though? How did it suddenly become so urgent that she needs surgery?"