When his body arched under the shock, the pregnant woman whispered his name softly as if I were invisible, and her voice carried a familiarity that made my chest tighten.
“I’m Madison Blake, his wife,” she said through tears when a resident tried to guide her away from the procedure area.
My stomach twisted, because I had believed for over a decade that I was his only wife.
After two shocks, we restored a stable rhythm, and we quickly intubated him before transferring him to the intensive care unit for closer monitoring.
In the hallway, Madison looked at me with desperate eyes, searching for reassurance while holding her belly protectively as if she feared losing everything at once.
“He is stable but still critical,” I told her carefully, choosing each word with precision to avoid revealing anything I was not ready to face.
Without thinking, I asked, “How far along are you,” and she answered quietly, “Thirty weeks,” while instinctively placing her hand over her abdomen.
Thirty weeks of a life I had never known about, thirty weeks of deception that had existed alongside my own reality without my awareness.