My Husband Hung Up While I Was Dying

I called Patricia Vance that evening. I found her card in the drawer where I kept our tax documents. She was a divorce attorney. Rachel had mentioned her once, years ago, after her sister's separation. I'd filed the name away without thinking I'd ever need it.

The phone rang twice.

"Patricia Vance."

"Ms. Vance, my name is Milena Kelly. I'm calling about a consultation."

"Of course. What's the situation?"

I sat at the kitchen table. The apartment was quiet. Cassian was at the hospital. Again.

"I've been married seven years," I said. "My husband is having an affair."

"Do you have proof?"

"Yes."

"Does he know you know?"

"No."

She was quiet for a moment. "What do you want, Mrs. Kelly?"

I looked at my hands. They were folded on the table. Steady.

"I want to understand my options."

"All right. Walk me through it."

So I did. I told her about the movie tickets. The mug. The bracelet. The phone call on New Year's Eve. I described it all quietly. Methodically. Like I was presenting evidence in a case that didn't belong to me.

Patricia didn't interrupt. She let me finish.

When I stopped talking, she said, "You've already done the hard part."

I blinked. "What?"

"The hard part is seeing it clearly. The rest is paperwork."

I felt something loosen in my chest. Something I'd been holding tight for weeks.

"Can I think about it?" I asked.

"Of course. But Mrs. Kelly?"

"Yes?"

"Don't wait too long. The longer you stay, the harder it gets to leave."

I thanked her. Hung up. Opened my legal notepad and wrote down a single word.

*Enough.*

Then I closed the notebook and went to bed.

---

The storm came three nights later.

I woke to thunder. The kind that shook the windows. Rain hammered the glass. The apartment was dark except for the occasional flash of lightning.

Cassian wasn't home. Another late shift. Another excuse.

I got up to close the bedroom window. That's when the pain hit.

Sharp. Twisting. Low in my abdomen. I doubled over. Pressed my hand to my stomach. Waited for it to pass.

It didn't.

I made it to the kitchen before my legs gave out. I sank to the floor. My back against the cabinet. The pain was a fist clenching tighter and tighter.

I reached for my phone. My hands were shaking. I pulled up Cassian's number. Hit call.

It rang four times.

"Milena?" His voice was distracted. Impatient.

"Cassian." I could barely get the word out. "I need you."

"What's wrong?"

"Something's wrong. I can't—I can't move. It hurts."

There was a pause. Then I heard it. In the background. A soft whimper. High-pitched. Frightened.

Daisy.

"Cassian, please—"

"Take some antacid," he said. His voice was clipped. Dismissive. "I'm in the middle of something."

Another crack of thunder. Daisy's voice again, closer now. "I hate storms. Please don't leave."

"Cassian—"

The line went dead.

I stared at the phone. The screen went dark. My reflection stared back at me. Pale. Wet with sweat.

I tried to stand. Couldn't. The pain was worse now. Radiating up my ribs. I crawled to the couch. Pulled myself onto it. Lay there breathing through my teeth.

I called 911.

The dispatcher was calm. Asked questions. Sent an ambulance.

I hung up and closed my eyes. Listened to the rain. Waited.

---

The ER was bright and cold. A nurse hooked me up to an IV. Asked questions. Took my vitals. A doctor came in. Young. Efficient. He pressed on my abdomen. I winced.

"Acute gastritis," he said. "Possibly an ulcer. We'll run some tests. You'll be here a few hours."

I nodded.

He left. The nurse adjusted the IV. Dimmed the lights. Told me to rest.

I lay there staring at the ceiling. The pain was duller now. Manageable. The IV drip was steady. Rhythmic.

I heard voices in the hallway. A man's voice. Urgent. Familiar.

Cassian.

I turned my head. Through the gap in the curtain, I saw him. He was carrying someone. Cradling her like she was made of glass.

Daisy.

Her arms were around his neck. Her face was pressed to his shoulder. She was crying softly.

He set her down gently in a wheelchair. Crouched beside her. Brushed her hair back.

"You're okay," he murmured. "I've got you."

A nurse approached. "What happened?"

"She tripped on the stairs during the storm," Cassian said. "Scraped her knee. I want it looked at. Make sure there's no infection."

The nurse glanced down. "It's a surface abrasion. We can clean it here."

"I want a full exam," Cassian said. His voice was firm. Protective. "She was terrified. I'm not taking any chances."

Daisy looked up at him. Her eyes were wet. Grateful. "Thank you," she whispered.

He kissed her forehead.

I lay there. Watching. My phone was in my hand. I lifted it slowly. Opened the camera. Hit record.

I filmed him crouching beside her. Whispering to her. Holding her hand.

I filmed the nurse cleaning a scrape no bigger than a dime.

I filmed Cassian pulling Daisy into his arms. Stroking her hair. Telling her she was safe.

Then I stopped recording. Saved the file. And closed my eyes.

When the nurse came back to check on me, I was crying.

She squeezed my hand. "The pain will pass," she said gently.

I nodded.

But I wasn't crying about the pain.

I was crying because I finally understood.

He hadn't hung up because he didn't care.

He'd hung up because he cared more about her.