Eric, my supposedly “DYING” husband, sat up straight. No struggle. No pain. He seemed happy. The kind of happiness that seemed out of place on the face of a dying man.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, pulling her into an embrace that looked anything but weak. When they kissed, I felt my wedding ring burn against my finger like a painful sting.
My heart shattered as I watched them talk, although the camera didn’t capture the audio, their body language was intimate and familiar.
She handed him some papers, which he carefully tucked under his mattress. They looked like they were planning something big, and I needed to know what.
The next morning, I returned to Eric’s room, my heart heavy with the secret I wasn’t supposed to know. He was back in character — pale, weak, struggling to sit up.
