The Secret Key
It was supposed to be an ordinary evening. The kitchen was alive with the usual commotion—homework scattered across the table, spaghetti simmering on the stove, and the joyful chaos of three kids under ten filling the air. I was elbow-deep in marinara sauce when the phone rang. Expecting my husband, Daniel, to call from his business trip, I answered without hesitation.
But it wasn’t Daniel.
“Ma’am? This is the hospital. Your husband has been admitted for emergency surgery.”
The words hit me like a wave, my grip on the phone faltering.
“Surgery? What happened?”
“Acute appendicitis. He was brought in a few hours ago.”
A jolt of concern surged through me. But then, something didn’t add up. That morning, Daniel had texted me, saying he was out of town for a conference. Yet, the hospital address the nurse gave me was local.
“Are you sure?” I asked, my voice unsteady. “He was supposed to be traveling.”
The nurse hesitated. “No, ma’am. He was admitted from a local address.”
A sinking feeling settled in my stomach. Something wasn’t right.
The drive to the hospital was a blur of worried thoughts. The kids were safe with a neighbor, the stove—had I turned it off? I couldn’t remember. But none of it mattered now. All that mattered was Daniel.
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