As it happened, I needed surgery urgently and ended up in the hospital. My husband and a dog stayed at home. My husband and I have been together for a long time and, as they say, were two peas in a pod. We've known each other since high school—we were in the same grade, went to the same summer camps, and finally hit it off at a school dance senior year. We started dating, hanging out, and then I waited for him while he was away in the service. He was my first love and the father of my children. In short, our relationship developed in the most classic way and, I thought, was so solid that no disaster could shake it. I was absolutely certain of my husband.
My surgery was a success. While I was recovering from the ordeal, my husband called every day and came by whenever I needed something or just to check on me. He was clearly worried about me, and it showed. I, of course, was worried about him—how he was managing on his own. He was used to having everything done for him, and now he had to do the grocery shopping and cook for himself. Mind you, before I went into the hospital, we went to the store and stocked up on everything imaginable so he'd have plenty to eat.
"Don't worry about it," he told me. "I'll boil some ravioli, get some sour cream, I'll manage. You just focus on recovering so you can get through this in one go and never have to see an operating table again."
Eventually, the time came for me to be discharged. It actually happened that the doctor planned to let me go on Tuesday, but ended up clearing me on Friday. There were still two injections I needed, but I could handle those myself.
"Alright," the doctor announced. "If you can do it yourself, then go ahead. Finish your recovery at home, get some rest, and come see me on Wednesday. I'll check on you then and we'll decide on the next steps."
Thrilled to finally be going home, I called my husband to come pick me up, but he didn't answer.
"Well," I thought, "maybe he's at work or out in the garage and didn't hear it, or he left his phone at home…"
I went ahead and called an Uber.
When I arrived home, I slowly made my way up to our second-floor apartment. I unlocked the door, and as I stepped inside, I heard voices—a man and a woman. I wondered who it could be. Maybe the TV? But why was the sound coming from the bedroom? Questions swirled in my head as I walked toward our room. I opened the door, and there, in our bed, lay my husband, wrapped in the arms of that naked neighbor from downstairs, Helen—a woman I've always loathed.
"What on earth is this?!" I exclaimed, watching them cozying up to each other. Helen vanished from our bed like she'd been struck by lightning.
She was lucky I was fresh out of surgery and had no strength, otherwise, I would have sent her flying off that second-floor balcony myself. My husband turned pale.
"Right," I said. "Get out of here and onto the couch in the living room. I'll decide how I'm going to kill you later. For now, I need to lie down."
My husband retreated to the sofa without a word, and I sat on the bed and cried.
0 comments