They said he’d slipped on the stairs at work. Surgery went smoothly. The doctors promised recovery would be slow but straightforward. I reorganized my life around visiting hours—bringing soup from home, fixing his pillows, sleeping upright in the visitor’s chair whenever they allowed it.
I believed that was what a devoted wife was supposed to do.
On the fourth night, he finally fell into a deep, peaceful sleep. His breathing evened out, his face softer than it had been in months. I stood to stretch when the head nurse approached me.
Her name badge read Karen Mitchell.
She didn’t smile.
She glanced down the hallway, then slipped a folded note into my hand as if she were adjusting the IV.
“Don’t come back,” she murmured.
Then, barely audible: “Check the cameras.”
My chest tightened.
“What?” I whispered.
She straightened instantly and walked away, calling another patient’s name as if nothing had happened.
I stood there, staring at my palm.
In the bathroom, I unfolded the paper.
Room 418. Security footage. Ask administration.
My first reaction was denial. Nurses see too much. Maybe she was mistaken. Maybe this had nothing to do with me.
Still, my hands shook as I walked to the administrative office.