After Sarah’s husband falls into a coma following an incident in the bathroom, she discovers a letter revealing his secret affair. Can she divorce a man in a coma?
Our typical Friday evening was all about dinner and a movie at home. James always appreciated the little things, and I had to admit, it was comforting to just stay in and relax. But our evening quickly turned from quiet and relaxing to loud and harrowing.
I was washing the dishes, waiting for James to shower and come back downstairs for us to watch our movie, when a scream rang out from the bathroom. Rushing to the scene, my heart pounding in my chest, I found my husband unconscious near the bathtub.
“Oh, James,” I said, holding his head in my lap. Without a second thought, I called for emergency services. I needed him to be whisked to a hospital. I needed to know that he was going to be okay.
At the hospital, I stood against the wall while the ER doctors moved around James, strapped to the gurney. “Sarah,” a doctor called out. “Your husband is in a coma. I’ll give you a full report once all the results come in.” I nodded, trying to process the entire situation. James had been fine. He had eaten dinner and cleared the table with me. Then he went to shower. Could he have slipped and hit his head? I thought to myself.
“Go home, Sarah,” the doctor said. “Get some rest, and maybe some of James’ personal belongings. Like pajamas and toiletries. I can’t tell you how long he’s going to be in a coma.”
So, I went back home, re-energized by the fact that I had a purpose. I needed to get James’ belongings together and then get back to the hospital. The first thing I did was go to the bathroom and look for any evidence. I searched for a puddle of water, something that James might have slipped on. I went on my hands and knees, dropping my handbag onto the bathroom mat. But there was nothing.
In the chaos of gathering James’ essentials, I remembered that I needed to phone my mother-in-law and let her know about the situation. Hurrying back to the bathroom, I went to get my phone from my handbag. But as I bent to retrieve it, a peculiar detail caught my eye, something that I had missed in my first search of the bathroom. Tucked under the bathtub was an envelope, sealed, with my name written across it in the unmistakable handwriting of my sister, Amelia, who had inexplicably cut ties and moved to another city a year ago.
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