Chapter 7 - VICTOR TRIED TO EXPLAIN
Victor came to my room the next morning in a wheelchair.
I had specifically told staff I did not want him admitted without my permission.
He asked.
I said yes.
Not because I wanted reconciliation.
Because Helen was sitting in the family lounge ten feet away.
And because my phone was recording audio from the bedside table.
Victor looked older than he had forty-eight hours earlier.
Gray-faced.
Tired.
Still recovering from major surgery.
For a second, compassion betrayed me.
That is the difficult thing about loving someone for thirty-four years.
Your body remembers concern after your mind has learned better.
He looked at my bare hand.
“Where’s your ring?”
“Safe.”
“Sarah.”
“What did you want?”
He sighed.
“The conversation you heard sounded worse than it was.”
I almost smiled.
“You promised my house to Rita.”
“I was trying to reassure her.”
“Why does Rita need reassurance about my house?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Then simplify it.”
His jaw tightened.
“Sloan Residential was part of an asset strategy.”
“My asset.”
“Our life.”
“My inherited property.”
“After thirty-four years, you’re really going to talk like a divorce lawyer?”
That sentence told me more than he intended.
I looked directly at him.
“Were you planning one?”
Victor’s eyes flickered.
Just once.
Enough.
I felt strangely calm.
“How long have you been sleeping with her?”
“Sarah—”
“How long?”
He looked away.
I had my answer before he spoke.
“Two years.”
The room disappeared for a second.
Thirty-four years of marriage.
Two years of lying.
Eighteen months of kidney failure.
Meaning Rita had been there while I drove him to dialysis.
While I learned transplant nutrition.
While I injected medication.
While I filled out donor questionnaires asking whether anyone had pressured me to give an organ.
I laughed once.
Victor looked uncomfortable.
“I never meant for you to find out like this.”
“That is an extraordinary sentence.”
“It was over emotionally between us a long time ago.”
“Was it?”
“You became my caretaker.”
I stared at him.
“You were sick.”
“Exactly.”
“I took care of you because you were my husband.”
“And that became all we had.”
I felt my hands start trembling.
I placed them beneath the blanket.
Then I asked the question that mattered more than Rita.
“Why the power of attorney?”
He froze.
Only for a second.
“How do you know about that?”
“Answer.”
“It was practical.”
“Why the deed?”
His face changed.
There it was again.
Fear.
“Sarah, you don’t understand how that property was going to be structured.”
“You were transferring my house to Rita’s company.”
“It wasn’t giving it to Rita.”
“You literally told her the house was going to be hers.”
“That was shorthand.”
I almost admired him.
Thirty-four years of marriage, and he still believed vocabulary could rescue intent.
“Leave.”
“Sarah.”
“Leave.”
“You’re upset.”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“I was upset yesterday.”
May you like
Then I pointed toward the door.
“Today I’m informed.”
