Inside, the warm scent of sugar and butter wrapped around me. For a fleeting second, I imagined I was just another woman picking up breakfast for a normal marriage.
“Can I help you?” the cashier asked.
“Four vanilla rolls and two turnovers. And black coffee, please.”
I paid carefully, counting bills. Andrew’s disability covered treatments, but everything else fell on me. I worked freelance editing at night, barely sleeping.
Traffic crawled. I called home to check on Ryan, Andrew’s son from his first marriage.
“Hey,” he answered groggily.
“Ryan, can you take out the trash before class? Pickup’s today.”
“Yeah. Later,” he muttered and hung up.
I knew he wouldn’t do it. Still, I told myself to be patient. Everyone was suffering, right?
I parked several blocks from the hospital and walked, clutching the warm bag against my chest. I wanted to see Andrew smile when he tasted it.
Inside, the familiar smell of antiseptic hit me. A nurse told me Andrew was in the courtyard getting sunlight.
I walked toward the glass doors leading to the garden, paused to smooth my hair, and caught my reflection—dark circles, tired eyes, a woman worn thin. “It’s fine,” I thought. “You’re here.”
I reached for the door handle—and froze.
Andrew’s voice floated through the glass.
“…you learn to adapt,” he was saying. “Life takes your legs, but it gives you other perks.”
He was talking to Frank Miller, another rehab patient.
“Doesn’t it bother you?” Frank chuckled. “Your wife does everything for you.”
Andrew laughed. Not weak. Not bitter. Confident.
“Please. Isabel’s dependable. But let’s be honest—where would she go? I hit the jackpot.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve got a full-time nurse, cook, driver, and maid. Costs me nothing. Not even benefits.”
My stomach dropped.
“But she’s your wife.”
“She is. And she’s useful. Obedient. I tell her jump, she jumps. And the best part?” He lowered his voice. “She thinks she’s inheriting everything.”
Frank laughed. “Seriously?”
“Absolutely not,” Andrew said. “Everything goes to Ryan. Blood is blood. Isabel’s young—she can find someone else when I’m gone. If she’s not too worn out.”
“Lucky guy.”
“Just practical,” Andrew replied. “Hope keeps her around. Cheaper than a care facility. She’s my luxury maid.”
The words crushed me.
I stared at the bag in my hands. The breakfast. The sacrifice. The love.
One tear slipped down my cheek—not grief, but fury.