One Tuesday—indistinguishable from countless others—my alarm rang at four-thirty. The city was dark, cold, silent enough to amplify every thought. I dressed for practicality, not pride, and mentally recited the day’s tasks.
Lucas had been craving pastries from a bakery near the hospital. He said hospital meals made him feel like a burden. I convinced myself that something warm and familiar might help.
The bakery glowed when I arrived. Butter and sugar filled the air, and for a moment, I pretended I was just another woman buying breakfast for someone she loved.
The cashier smiled. “What can I get you?”
“Two cinnamon rolls, a box of plain pastries, and a black coffee,” I said.
I paid carefully and drove toward the hospital, the bag on the seat beside me, imagining Lucas’s reaction.
Inside, the familiar bite of antiseptic met me. A volunteer mentioned Lucas was in the courtyard with another patient. I headed toward the glass doors, smoothing my hair, trying to appear less worn.
Then I heard him.
The other man laughed. “Your wife does everything. That doesn’t bother you?”
“Why would it?” Lucas replied easily. “Marianne’s dependable. She doesn’t leave. She has nowhere else to go.”
I stopped just out of view, my breath trapped in my chest.
“Sounds like you made out well,” the man said.
“I did,” Lucas answered. “Full care, no cost. No facilities. No bills. Just patience and hope keeping her right where she is.”
