"Happy Birthday, George!" someone shouted from the living room.
His birthday. Of course.
I stepped further into the light, my hospital bracelet still on my wrist, my face pale and devoid of makeup.
The chatter died instantly.
One by one, heads turned. The music seemed to screech to a halt.
George was standing by the fireplace, a glass of scotch in one hand, his other arm draped possessively around Donna’s waist. She was wearing my favorite red dress.
When he saw me, the color drained from his face. His glass slipped from his fingers and shattered on the marble hearth.
"Eliza?" he choked out.
The silence was deafening.
"Surprised?" I asked, my voice hoarse but steady. I walked into the room, the crowd parting for me like I was a ghost.
"Eliza!" Donna gasped, her hand flying to her mouth in a performance worthy of an Oscar. "Oh my god! You’re… you’re here!"
"What are you doing here?" George hissed, stepping away from Donna, his eyes darting around the room at the confused guests.
"It’s my home, George," I said, stopping a few feet from him. "Can I not be at my own husband's birthday party?"
A murmur rippled through the crowd.