Eight Lives Lost My Husband Died for Her

I was scrolling through my phone during my maternity recovery when I stumbled across a local help-wanted post:

"My mistress is almost due, and she wants to have the baby abroad. My mom adores her and wants to go along to take care of her, but my wife is still in postpartum recovery right now. How do I get my wife to agree to let me and my mom go overseas for a while?"

The comments were tearing the guy apart, but the poster had liked one reply in particular:

"Easy. Just tell your wife your mom has a serious illness and needs to go abroad for treatment."

I was still shaking my head, feeling sorry for whatever poor woman was stuck with a husband and mother-in-law like that, when my own husband walked in holding a medical report.

"Honey, my mom just found out she has a heart condition. She needs surgery overseas as soon as possible. I'll probably have to stay with her abroad while she's being treated."

……

I stared at the report in Brad Delgado's hand, and my heart gave a sharp, involuntary lurch. The post I'd just read flashed through my mind before I could stop it.

It had to be a coincidence.

Brad was famous for how much he loved me. Everyone knew it.

During my entire pregnancy, he'd cooked me a different meal every single day, never repeating a dish. When my body ached from carrying the baby, no matter how late he got home or how exhausted he was, he'd massage me until I fell asleep. The day I went into labor, he'd paced outside the delivery room like a man losing his mind.

After the baby was born, everyone crowded around the newborn, laughing and cooing. Everyone except Brad. He'd gripped my hand and cried so hard his nose was running.

"I'm sorry, babe. I'm so sorry you had to go through that."

During my recovery, he'd turned down every work obligation and stayed home with his mother to look after me and the baby. Jean handled the housework during the day. Brad took over feedings, diaper changes, and baths. He'd even moved into the guest room with the baby at night so I could sleep through undisturbed.

A husband who treated me like I hung the moon—how could he possibly be the man in that post?

I steadied myself and asked, trying to sound casual:

"Isn't Mom in good health, though? How did it suddenly become so urgent that she needs surgery?"

Brad shook his head, anxiety written all over his face.

"I don't know. She's been complaining about chest pain the last few days, so I took her in for a checkup today. The doctor said it's serious. They need to operate right away."

"And after the surgery, she'll need at least two months of rest to recover."

Two months.

Exactly long enough to see a woman through delivery and postpartum recovery.

Something cold settled in my stomach, but I pressed on, keeping my voice light.

"I know one of the best cardiologists abroad. Why don't I reach out for you?"

Brad waved his hands frantically. "No, no, that's not necessary."

He seemed to realize how abrupt that sounded, because he caught himself immediately. He took my hands in his, guilt flooding his face.

"Babe, this is the most critical part of your recovery. Mom and I won't even be here to take care of you, and I already feel terrible about that." His voice cracked. "How could I ask you to worry about this on top of everything else?"

His eyes were rimmed with red as he spoke.

Like his heart was breaking for me.

But my gaze had drifted down and locked onto his hand.

There, on the web between his right thumb and forefinger, was a scar.

Identical to the one in the poster's profile picture.

If I remembered correctly, he'd gotten that scar three months ago.

I'd just finished a prenatal checkup, and Brad was walking me out of the hospital. An unleashed German shepherd came snarling out of nowhere, lunging straight at me.

Brad hadn't hesitated. He'd thrown himself in front of me and fought the dog off with his bare hands.

In the end, the animal had torn a chunk of flesh from the web of his hand.

Blood everywhere. Seventeen stitches.

I'd cried so hard I couldn't stop wiping my eyes, but Brad just smiled and tried to comfort me: