“Do you think Charlotte is taking advantage of your kindness?” I asked, the words cutting through my throat like glass.
Tyler looked genuinely shocked. “Abusing? Hannah, she’s being harassed by her ex. She needs support.”
“He has a therapist. And his parents are nearby.”
“But she trusts me,” he said, as if that trust were more important than our vows.
The following Thursday, it was pouring rain as I left for a work dinner. My phone sat in the cup holder, silent, and I practiced making excuses for his inevitable absence. At the corner of Fifth and Madison, a truck ran a red light. My last thought before impact was: He won’t stop.
The impact turned metal to bone. My wedding ring glistened with blood I couldn’t quite grasp as mine.
I woke up beneath the yellowing ceiling tiles of Riverside General Hospital. Dr. Webb pushed my dislocated shoulder back into place with a jerk that split me open. Patricia, a nurse with tired, kind eyes, hovered beside me.
“We tried calling your husband three times. It went straight to voicemail.”
He turned off his phone.
My hand shook as I typed: I had an accident. At the Riverside Emergency Room. Shoulder, concussion. Can you come?
The three dots blinked, disappeared, and came back. Then came the wrecking ball: I can’t leave lunch with Charlotte. Her ex is here. Call an Uber. Sorry, honey.
It wasn’t a broken heart, it was a realization. In the moment that mattered most, he didn’t choose me.
Patricia read my face with sad familiarity. “Is anyone else coming for you, honey?”
I called Officer Janet Morrison, a friend of the client. “Janet, this is Hannah Wilson. I’ve been in an accident. Could the officer please notify my husband? He’s in the Sterling Room with Charlotte Thomas, by the window.”
She hesitated. “We’ll send someone right away.”
I closed my eyes and imagined the scene: Tyler leaning closer, Charlotte’s hand on his sleeve—until the police arrived, their voices echoing that his wife had been in the hospital for hours. The public humiliation was only just beginning.
Two hours later, my brother David arrived, wrinkled and furious. He squeezed my hand. “You asked him to come, and he told you to take an Uber?” His face hardened as he read the messages. “Eight years of watching him treat you like a convenience. We’re done.”
Before I could answer, he called: “Martinez, locksmith. Locks being changed tomorrow morning. Morrison Moving, pick up at noon. Pack up everything he has.”
The speed made me feel dizzy, but I didn’t stop him.
That night, Charlotte herself sent me a message on Instagram: Hannah, I’m embarrassed. When the police arrived, I asked why he didn’t come out to see you. He told me you were exaggerating to get attention, that everything was fine. Even after the police explained. I didn’t know they hurt you so badly. He’s no longer welcome in my life.
So not only did he neglect me, but he also portrayed me as a liar to justify himself.
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