I came home because the guilt wouldn’t leave me alone.
For three days, Nathan Cole had been “too sick” to work.
Pale.
Weak.
Coughing under a blanket on the couch like standing up might break him.
Every morning before I left for the office, I set water beside him, checked his medication, and asked if he needed anything. Every morning, he gave me that faint, grateful little smile from the sofa.
And every morning, I hated myself for feeling relieved when the door closed behind me and I could finally breathe at work.
So that afternoon, I decided to surprise him.
Soup from the deli.
His favorite ginger ale.
A quick kiss.
A small reminder that even when I was busy, I still cared.
I parked a few houses down so the garage door wouldn’t wake him.
The neighborhood looked normal.
Bare winter trees.
Kids dragging backpacks down the sidewalk.
A dog barking somewhere behind a fence.
Our house looked peaceful from the outside — curtains drawn, porch swept, everything quiet and ordinary.
The kind of house people call calm.
I slipped inside with my shoes in my hand.
Then I froze.
Nathan’s voice came from the living room.
Low.
Sharp.
Intense.
Nothing like the weak, fragile voice he had been using with me all week.
He wasn’t coughing.
He wasn’t struggling to breathe.
He was pacing.
And every word coming out of his mouth made the floor feel less solid beneath me.
“No, you’re not listening,” Nathan said. “I already gave you the timeline. She can’t suspect anything before Friday.”
Friday.
My stomach tightened.
She?
A woman’s voice came through the speaker.
Muffled, but clear enough.
“Then stop stalling. You made promises.”
My mouth went dry.
