One afternoon, a woman arrived at the house. Tall. Stunning. Red lips. Expensive heels clicking sharply on the tile floor.
Grace answered the door, instantly recognizing her from the photos Andrew used to hide in his phone.
“I just wanted to see him,” the woman said, a little too confidently.
Grace tilted her head and said gently, “He’s sleeping.”
There was something in her tone — calm, unwavering — that made the younger woman pause. She looked past Grace into the hallway, then down at the woman who’d held her marriage together for over a decade.
She didn’t say another word. She turned and left.
Later that night, as the machines around Andrew beeped softly and the air grew thick with the scent of medicine and despair, Andrew’s hand reached out for Grace’s.
His voice was weak. Barely audible.
“…Grace…”
She moved closer, adjusting the blanket over his thin shoulders. Her movements were soft and precise.
“I’m here,” she said quietly.
“I… I’m sorry…”
Grace studied his face. He looked so small now. The man who once filled every room with his presence now seemed to shrink beneath the weight of his own guilt.
“I made mistakes…” he whispered. “But you still love me… right?”
There it was.
