Chapter 3 - RITA
I knew Rita Sloan.
That made the betrayal worse.
Victor had introduced her five years earlier as a consultant helping reorganize his company after a tax dispute.
She was fifty-three then, elegant, auburn-haired, recently divorced, and extraordinarily good at making attention feel accidental.
I liked her.
That embarrassed me later.
Rita came to our Christmas party.
She brought wine to my retirement dinner when I left hospital administration.
When Victor’s kidney function deteriorated, she sent flowers.
Once, she even texted me:
He’s lucky to have you.
I thanked her.
What else would I have done?
Victor and Rita traveled together occasionally for work. I never objected. At fifty-eight, I believed jealousy belonged to a younger version of marriage.
After three decades, trust begins to feel less like a decision and more like architecture.
You stop inspecting the beams.
Then one day the ceiling falls.
I did not know whether Victor and Rita were lovers when I heard his phone call.
Not yet.
But I knew he was promising my house to her.
And I knew he had lied about paperwork.
That was enough.
I did not need every betrayal identified before I protected myself from the next one.
Victor called my name again from behind the curtain.
“Sarah?”
I did not answer.
A nurse entered less than a minute later.
“Mrs. Hale, how’s your pain?”
“Six.”
She checked my IV.
“Any nausea?”
“No.”
Then I said, “I need my phone charger. And I need to speak to the patient advocate privately.”
Victor heard me.
“What for?”
The nurse glanced toward the curtain.
I ignored him.
“Privately.”
Something in my tone made her stop asking questions.
“I’ll arrange it.”
Victor tried to laugh.
“Sarah, sweetheart, whatever you heard—”
“Not now.”
“I was talking business.”
“Not now.”
There was silence.
The nurse looked between the curtain and me.
Then she pulled it more firmly closed.
That tiny action felt enormous.
May you like
A physical barrier.
Someone had finally placed one between my husband and me.
