I had loved him for three years. Hid my family's name. Dulled every sharp edge I had. Cooked his meals, kept his house, swallowed my pride. And all of it bought me one sentence: If you're sick, just die.
I sniffed, then looked at the diagnosis report one more time.
That was when I noticed it. The field labeled Patient Name read, unmistakably: Thaddeus Gilbert.
I went still. Then I pulled every document out of my bag.
The registration slip was mine. But the diagnosis report had been left over from Thaddeus's physical exam last week. The hospital ID number, the patient identification—all his.
His exam summary on the final page read: Mild gastritis. Monitor diet.
I started to laugh.
God was on my side.
I wiped my face, folded the report with care, and slipped it into the hidden compartment of my bag.
My phone buzzed again.
Thaddeus had sent a photo of the divorce agreement, with a note attached: "Come home tonight and sign. Don't make me force you."
I replied: "Okay."
You want me dead? Fine. I'll play out this little scene with you to the very end.
Only this time, the lead role is about to change.
Outside the hospital, the sunlight hit like a blade.