I waited until Daniel left for school, then I followed.
I parked far enough away to feel ridiculous, but I watched him walk out after his last class, briefcase in hand, moving like a man with somewhere important to be.
He drove across town.
My hands sweated as I followed, my brain offering ugly pictures I didn’t ask for.
Then he turned into a hospital lot.
I stared at the sign, confused. “What is this?” I whispered.
Daniel parked, sat still for a moment, then walked inside like this place knew him.
After a beat, I forced myself out of the car and followed.
The lobby smelled like sanitizer. At the front desk, a woman with a neat ponytail looked up. Her name tag read Shelby.
“Hi,” I said, my voice tighter than I wanted. “My husband—Daniel—he’s here a lot.”
Shelby’s attention sharpened. “Is he a patient?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “That’s why I’m here. He’s been… lying to me about where he goes.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t share anyone’s private medical information.”
“I’m not asking for a diagnosis,” I said quickly, panic rising hot and humiliating. “I thought he was cheating. I followed him. I just… I need to understand what’s happening.”
Shelby looked at me for a long moment, like she could see the fear beneath my anger.
“I can tell you this,” she said quietly. “He signs in as a visitor.”
“A visitor,” I repeated. “For where?”
“Hospice,” Shelby said. “Fourth floor.”
My stomach dropped.
“Hospice?” I echoed. “So he’s not sick.”
“No,” Shelby confirmed gently. “He’s visiting someone.”
“Who?” I asked, my voice sharpening.
“I can’t give you a name, sweetheart. But I can call the unit and let them know you’re here. They can decide what they’re allowed to share. Would you like me to do that?”
My throat tightened. “Yes. Please.”
Shelby picked up the phone, spoke quietly, then set it down.
“They said you can go up,” she told me. “Ask for the nurse’s station. They’ll help you.”
The hospice floor was quieter, like sound had manners.
