The morning started like any other, with the tension of waiting in a hospital room for news about my mother, Margaret. She had been in a coma for nearly three months after a car accident, and each day blurred into a cycle of monitoring and vague reassurances. But when the doctor walked in that morning, his expression was different.
“She’s awake. Your mother is awake,” he said.
The words hit me like a thunderclap. Julia, my wife, squeezed my hand, but I barely registered it. I ran down the hallway to the ICU, and there she was, pale but alert, her hazel eyes fixed on me.
“Mom,” I whispered, voice cracking.
“Hi, Oliver,” she replied, faintly smiling.
Tears blurred my vision. After weeks of pleading silently for this moment, my mother had returned. Julia entered the room quietly, but Margaret’s gaze immediately shifted to her. Something in her expression was sharp, almost chilling.
“How much longer are you planning to hide your secret from my son?” she asked, her voice steady and hoarse.
The room froze. My mind raced. Julia’s face went pale, fingers gripping her coat. “Mom,” I said, trying to calm the storm, “you just woke up. What are you talking about?”
Margaret ignored me. “I heard everything,” she said. “Every whisper, every confession. You thought I couldn’t hear, but I did.”
Julia tried to protest, but Margaret continued, her voice cutting and calm: she had overheard Julia speaking on the phone with another man, confessing that she wished she could be with him once Margaret was gone. She named him—Patrick, my best friend.
Shock and disbelief crashed over me. Julia remained silent, unable to deny it. The betrayal I had long ignored now pierced through me like glass.
I didn’t know how I would face the next hours, or how my world would change from that moment forward…
