On the way, his phone rang. I froze when I heard a woman’s voice: “Hey, you almost here?” My heart raced as I pulled into the hotel parking lot. There he was—my husband—alive, waiting at the entrance. He turned, his face pale. “You’re supposed to be dead,” I whispered, tears falling.
He stammered, “I… I had to fake it. I owed dangerous people money. I wanted to protect you.” A woman stepped out, holding a gift bag, looking uneasy.
My world shattered. The man I’d mourned was alive, but our trust was gone. I turned away, ignoring his pleas, and drove off, the hotel fading behind me. I didn’t know if I could forgive him—or if I even wanted to. The life I knew was over.
