The smell of butter and sugar and cinnamon filled the air, and for a brief, precious moment, I pretended I was just another woman buying breakfast for someone she loved.
Not a caregiver. Not a nurse. Just a wife doing something kind.
The cashier smiled at me, genuinely friendly in that early morning way.
“What can I get you today?”
“Two cinnamon rolls, a box of plain pastries for later, and a large black coffee,” I said, trying to sound normal, trying to remember what normal even felt like.
I paid carefully, counting out bills from my wallet, and drove toward the hospital with the bag sitting on the passenger seat beside me.
I imagined Lucas’s reaction. Maybe he would thank me. Maybe he would remember why he married me.
Maybe today would be different.
Inside the hospital, the familiar bite of antiseptic hit me immediately, that smell that never quite leaves your nose.
I signed in at the front desk, nodding at the receptionist who knew me by name now.
A volunteer in a pink jacket mentioned that Lucas was in the courtyard with another patient, getting some fresh air.
I headed toward the glass doors that led outside, smoothing my hair with one hand, trying to appear less worn down than I felt.
Then I heard him.
Lucas’s voice, clear and unmistakable, drifting through the open door.
“You adjust to it,” he was saying to someone. “People think it is tragic, but honestly, there are perks.”
I slowed my steps, confused. Perks?
The other man laughed, a sound that carried easily in the quiet morning air.
“Your wife does everything for you, right? That does not bother you?”
“Why would it?” Lucas replied easily, almost cheerfully. “Marianne is dependable. She does not leave. She has nowhere else to go, really.”
I stopped walking completely, just out of view behind a concrete pillar, my breath suddenly trapped in my chest.
The bag of pastries felt heavy in my hands.
“Sounds like you made out pretty well in this situation,” the man said, and I could hear the amusement in his voice.
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