I was sitting in the flat when the news came that my friend Alice Turners husband, Mark, had been in a coma for a week. Id been crying by his bedside, and a small sixyearold girl whispered, Its a pity, Auntie as soon as you leave, he throws a party. The girls words cut through the sterile smell of the hospital disinfectant, sharper than any antiseptic.
The silence in the apartment was thick enough to choke on. Outside the streetlights had long since gone out, yet Alice was still hunched over her glowing monitor, putting the finishing touches on a design project. The clock on the desk read eleven to twelve. Another allnight rush. Another lonely night in that spacious, stylish, utterly soulless flat. Her husband, Mark, as usual, had gone to see friends the third time that week, the third time in this endless, exhausting week.
She slumped back in her chair, rubbing her inflamed, sandgray eyes with a force that made them water. A relentless ringing of fatigue hummed in her ears. Here we go again, alone, she murmured to the emptiness. Your unbearable nature has pushed everyone away. She replayed their recent fights in her head: her accusations, his silent irritation. Was she right? Was she really the nagging, neversatisfied one, always complaining? Was her blunt honesty truly intolerable, the reason he fled like a plaguestricken rat?
Alice worked as a freelance designer. Her work was in demand, clients queued up, and she earned more than enough for the two of them. Mark, on the other hand, had shut down his modest business a year ago and entered a prolonged search for himself. In practice that meant endless hours on the sofa with a game console, aimless internet surfing, and those regular visits to friends that grew longer and more frequent.
One more time, Alice, dont push me, Mark would say, weary, when she timidly hinted it was time to decide. You know Im in a deep depression. I need your support, not endless accusations. She would retreat, feeling a sharp sting of guilt. She told herself she needed to give him time, to be wiser, more patient, gentler.
A dry, vibrating buzz snapped her to attention Maxs phone, left on the coffee table. Alice glanced at the bright screen. A message from Sophie: Mark, I miss you madly. When will we see each other again? Her heart dropped, then plummeted into an icy abyss. She grabbed the phone with trembling fingers; there was no password nothing to hide. She opened the chat. Dozens, hundreds of messages: My love, I miss you so much, When will you finally tell your wife the truth? She doesnt value you, I.
Her hands shook so hard she almost dropped the phone. She scrolled up to photos Mark with a redhaired woman, hugging in a cosy café, kissing in the rain, laughing on a sofa in an unfamiliar flat. Every picture showed his bright, triumphant smile, a smile she hadnt seen in years.
A bitter lump rose in her throat. She swallowed, dialled Marks number. The line rang forever before he finally answered.
Hello? his voice was light, cheerful, with a muffled girlish giggle in the background.
Mark, its me, she said.
A heavy silence followed. The giggle stopped.
Alice? Whats happened? he asked.
I found your phone. I read the messages. From Sophie, she replied, her voice sounding metalthin.
The silence on the line thickened, like tar, and lingered for what felt like an eternity.
Ill file for divorce tomorrow, Alice said, her tone icy, colder than shed ever felt. You can stay away. Ill put your things outside the flat.
Wait, Alice, you dont understand. I can explain everything! he pleaded.
She hung up. The phone slipped from her weakening grip and clattered to the floor. She sank onto the sofa, cradling her head. Twelve years of marriage she had thought them solid, if not perfect. Twelve years of believing, loving, tolerating, supporting. And he he had been cheating. The messages proved at least six months of lies, contempt, mockery behind her back.
She wept through the night, bitter, hopeless tears. In the morning, eyes swollen, she gathered his belongings into a large suitcase, left it by the entrance, called a solicitor, and set a date for the hearing. She would see this through to the end that was her creed.
Mark never showed up. No calls, no texts. Two days of deafening silence. She wondered if he even cared, if twelve years meant nothing to him.
On the third morning, the hospital called. A female voice said, Ms. Turner? This is City Hospital, Ward 12. Your husband, Mark Turner, has been admitted with a hypertensive crisis. His condition is serious. Please come at once. The world shattered, pieces scattering. All her anger, all her pain turned into a primal terror. Its my fault! My accusations drove him to the hospital! throbbed in her temples.
Without thinking, she grabbed the nearest bag, hailed a cab, and rushed to the hospital. In the intensive care unit, Mark lay pale, motionless, veins threaded with catheters, wires from beeping monitors attached to his body. A weary doctor, about fifty, spoke of severe stress, a sudden blood pressure spike, a microstroke, and the risk of a fullblown attack.
Hes in a light coma, the doctor said, lowering his voice. Its druginduced sleep. He may be able to hear you. Talk to him; its vital for recovery.
Alice sat on the chair beside his bed, gently took his cold hand. Mark, Im sorry, she whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks, now tears of remorse. I never meant for this to happen Please get better. Well sort everything out. I promise. Just wake up.
She visited every day, from dawn till dusk, reading his favourite books aloud, weeping and begging for forgiveness. Doctors shrugged his state remained grave, no improvement.
Darling, Im to blame for everything, she said, leaning over him. I nagged you day and night, gave you no peace, never understood your condition. Of course you sought comfort elsewhere. I pushed you into anothers arms. Its my fault. Please come back, and well start anew.
A week passed. She abandoned work, turned away clients, stopped answering calls. All that mattered was his awakening.
One Friday evening, as she left the ward, a small girl approached. Six years old, two neat blond pigtails tied with blue ribbons, huge blue eyes that looked far older than her age.
Auntie, do you visit Uncle Mark? the girl asked softly.
Yes, dear, Alice managed a strained smile. Thats my husband.
The girl nodded. Im Poppy. My dad works security here. I come after nursery when his shift ends. I sometimes bring Uncle Mark coffee from the canteen. He asks for it.
Alice frowned. Coffee? Poppy, but hes in a coma. He cant ask for coffee.
Poppy looked genuinely surprised. No, he isnt sleeping. He walks, talks, even laughs. Only when you leave does he go back to bed and close his eyes.
Alices legs felt like jelly. She crouched to be at the girls level and took her hand.
Poppy, are you sure? Did you really see him get up?
Sure! the girl exclaimed. Yesterday he even danced with Aunt Sophie. Shes beautiful, redhaired, brings him tasty food. They laugh loudly together. And when you come, Aunt Sophie hides in the bathroom.
Alices breath caught. Poppy why are you telling me all this?
The girls eyes softened with childlike pity. I feel sorry for you, Auntie. You always cry. And Uncle Mark tells Aunt Sophie what you said, and they both laugh. My dad says adults shouldnt meddle, but I cant stand seeing you hurt.
Alice rose slowly, legs like cotton. Thank you, Poppy. Youre brave and honest.
She left the hospital, got into her car, and tried to start it. Her hands trembled so much she couldnt turn the key. The realization hit he had been pretending all this time, manipulating her guilt to keep her under his control while he enjoyed a lovers company, even in the hospital.
That night, around nine, Alice returned to the ward. The security guard at the entrance Poppys father, a stern man with tired eyes gave her a silent, sympathetic nod and let her in.
She slipped quietly into Marks room. The door was ajar, light spilling in, faint laughter drifting from the hallway. A familiar womans voice, the one shed heard on the phone, chuckled, Mark, how could you? She must really love you.
Marks voice, bright and mocking, replied, She loves my future half of the flat! I tolerate her for the money, but well divorce soon, and shell pay me compensation for moral damage.
Alice pushed the door open. Mark sat upright in his hospital gown, looking perfectly healthy. A redhaired woman lay halfreclined on the bed, a halfempty bottle of expensive wine on the nightstand, plastic containers of leftovers scattered about.
They froze, like actors caught by a sudden spotlight.
Alice Mark began, trying to scramble off the bed.
She held up a hand. Dont speak. Stay silent.
Her voice was low, but steelhard. She produced her phone, snapped a few clear photos him, the woman, the wine, the dishevelled clothes.
For court. So there are no doubts, she said coldly.
Mark lunged off the bed, pushing the frightened woman aside. Alice, listen, I can explain! Its not what you think!
Explain it to the judge. Meanwhile enjoy your freedom, she replied, turning and walking out, her back straight, a cold fury burning inside her.
In the car she called her bank. Good afternoon. Please block all cards linked to my account, including any additional ones issued to my husband, Mark Turner.
She then called the hospital accounting department. Hello, this is Alice Turner. Ive been paying for my husbands treatment. Stop funding it. Hes faking it. I have evidence.
Back home she called an emergency locksmith, changed all the locks, added Mark to a blacklist, packed his remaining stuff into rubbish bags, and left them on the stairwell.
When midnight struck, she collapsed onto the livingroom sofa and wept not tears of pain, but tears of relief, washing away twelve years of poisonous lies. She whispered, God, what a blind fool I was, a little maid in his story.
The next morning Mark tried to break in, ringing the intercom, shouting from unknown numbers. Alice ignored him, called the police, and he was taken away with a warning for public disorder.
The divorce proceeded swiftly. She presented the photographs, the printed messages, and Poppys testimony. The judge accepted everything. Mark walked away with nothing not a penny, not a square inch of property.
Alice, give me something! he begged after the final hearing. How will I live now?
Live as you did before me. Find another maid if you need one, she replied, looking down at him.
The judge, a stern woman, added, Mr. Turner, you simulated a serious illness for manipulation and financial gain. Thats immoral and bordering on fraud. Be thankful Mrs. Turner isnt suing you separately.
After the legalities were settled, Alice threw herself into work. She locked herself in her home office and tackled all postponed projects, working until her mind was empty the only way she could avoid thinking, feeling, remembering.
Two weeks later a message arrived from an unknown number. Alice Turner, this is Michael, Poppys father. Remember our little girl at the hospital? Her birthday is the day after tomorrow. She begged us to invite a kind auntie who helped her. Would you come? It wouldnt be rude to say yes.
Alice smiled a genuine smile that hadnt graced her face for weeks. Of course, Ill be there. Where do you live and what does Poppy like?
She learned Poppy adored Bratz dolls and anything unicornrelated. The address was sent, and she thanked Michael profusely.
On the birthday, Alice arrived with a massive box containing a purplehaired doll, an entire unicorn kingdom, and a huge cake. At the door stood a tall, sporty man in his forties with tired but kind brown eyes and a shy smile. Alice Turner? Please, come in. Weve been expecting you.
Inside, the flat was a cosy creative mess: childrens drawings on the walls, a Lego box in the corner, the smell of fresh bake and apple crumble filling the air. It felt warm, truly warm the warmth shed missed all those years.
Poppy burst out of the room, flinging herself around Alices neck. Aunt Alice! Youre here! Im so happy!
They celebrated together, sipping tea with the very apple crumble that Michael had baked. Poppy showed off her drawings and told funny nursery stories.
Michael, blushing, apologized for the chaos. Its hard with one child. My wife died shortly after giving birth. Since then its just me and Poppy.
Alice replied, I love being here. It smells like real life.
Michael looked at her earnestly. Poppy told me you helped her see some things. Im sorry she got involved. I scolded her, but she has her own sense of justice.
Alices voice trembled. I owe your daughter everything. If she hadnt spoken the truth, Id still be blaming myself for his betrayal. Twelve years I lived as a walking wallet for a man who never appreciated me.
Michael said firmly, Youre not at fault. Toxic people shift blame like its their weapon. You were just caught in their crossfire.
They talked until late. Alice didnt notice the hours slipping by. Michael listened without interrupting, never judging. He told her hed worked security for ten years, dreamed of moving out of the city to a house with a garden for Poppy and a dog a German Shepherd named Rex.
Youre an amazing woman, Michael said as he saw her to the door. Strong. Not many could pull themselves together after such betrayal.
Alice flushed. Thank you. Youre a wonderful father. Poppy is lucky.
The next day Michael texted, Thanks for brightening our modest celebration. Poppy keeps saying she wants you to be her best friend. Maybe we could all go out together this weekend?
Alice agreed. They started walking together in the park, Poppy on rollerskates, them chatting behind her. They fed ducks on the riverbank, visited the zoo, and lingered on the promenade. Poppy ran ahead, and Alice found herself laughing freely, without a weight on her heart.
Youre perfect, Michael said one evening in a cosy café as Poppy dozed on Alices shoulder. Beautiful, smart, kind, strong. How could anyone not value such a treasure?
Alice corrected, Hes a thing of the past now just a page in my story. Youre a good man, Michael.
Their friendship deepened into something more. They texted daily, then talked on video calls until sunrise, sharing childhood memories, unfulfilled dreams, and what a real, honest family should look like.
Three months after the divorce, Mark made a lastditch attempt. He waited by the building entrance, grabbed Alices wrist as she stepped out.
Alice, lets start over. Ive changed. I have a proper job now, no more Sophie. I cant live without you.
Alice calmly freed her arm. Mark, Im marrying a good, honest man who sees me as a woman, not a maid. Forget me, youre just a nightmare.
What do I do now? he shouted, voice cracking.
I wish you luck, truly, Alice said, turning to get into the car where Michael and Poppy waited. Goodbye.
They drove to the countryside, to a tidy timber cottage. Poppy, chattering in the back seat, asked, Dad, are we going to set up a tent? Swim in the lake? Will Aunt AliceAs the sun set over the lake, Alice smiled, feeling at last that she had finally found the family she had always deserved.
