Mark lay comatose for a week while I wept beside his hospital bed. A sixyearold girl whispered, Its a pity, Auntie the moment you leave, he throws a party. She watched me, her eyes wide, as if the sterile smell of antiseptic had turned sour.
The silence in my flat was so thick it felt like a heavy blanket you could choke on. Outside, the streetlights of London had long been snuffed, and Lilymy daughterstill stared at the flickering monitor, polishing off another design project. The clock on the desk read eleven to twelve. Another allnight crisis. Another night spent alone in this spacious, stylish, utterly soulless apartment. My husband, Mark, had, as usual, gone to the lads the third time that week, the third time in this exhausting, relentless stretch.
I slumped back in my chair, rubbing the sandgrained edges of my eyelids until they throbbed. A relentless ringing of fatigue echoed in my ears. Here we are again, alone, I whispered to the empty room. Your impossible temperament has pushed everyone away. I replayed our recent quarrels in my mind: my accusations, his silent irritation. Was I right? Was I really the nagging, everdissatisfied one, the bluntness that drove him away like a plague?
I was a freelance designer. Clients queued for my work, and the money I earned was more than enough for the two of us. Mark, however, had shut down his small shop a year ago and since then wandered in a perpetual search for himself. In practice that meant endless hours on the sofa with the game console, aimless surfing, and those everlonger visits to the lads.
Emma, dont push me, hed say, weary, when I hinted it was time to decide. You know Im in a deep slump. I need your support, not endless nagging. And I would retreat, the sting of guilt sharp as a needle. I told myself I needed to give him space, to be wiser, more patient, kinder.
A dry, vibrating buzz made me jump. It was Marks phone, forgotten on the coffee table. My eyes flicked over the bright screen. A message from Katie: Mark, I miss you madly. When can we see each other? My heart didnt just dropit plunged into a frozen abyss. I snatched the phone with trembling fingers. No passwordnothing to hide. I opened the conversation. Dozens of messages: My love, I miss you so much, When will you finally tell your wife the truth? She doesnt value you; I.
My hands shook so hard I almost dropped the phone. I scrolled up feverishly. Photographs. Mark with a gingerhaired woman, laughing in a cosy café, kissing in the rain, lounging on a sofa in an unfamiliar flat. On every picture his smile shone brighta smile I hadnt seen for years.
A bitter knot rose in my throat, bile rising to my mouth. I forced a swallow, dialed Marks number. The line rang forever. Finally, he answered.
Hello? his voice was light, with a strangled giggle in the background.
Mark, its me.
A dead silence hung. The giggle stopped abruptly.
Alice? Something wrong?
Somethings wrong, my voice sounded metallic. I found your phone. I saw the messages with Katie.
The silence on the line grew heavy, like tar, stretching into eternity.
Tomorrow Im filing for divorce, I said, my tone icy, colder than Id ever felt. You can stay away. Ill put your things in the hallway.
Alice, wait you dont understand, I can explain! he stammered.
But I had already hung up. The phone slipped from my weakened grip, clattering onto the floor. I sank onto the sofa, clutching my head. Twelve years. Twelve years of marriage Id thought solid, if not perfect. Twelve years of belief, love, tolerance, support. And he hed been cheating. The messages showed at least six months of lies, contempt, mockery behind my back.
I wept all nightbitter, hopeless tears. At dawn, eyes swollen, I gathered his belongings into a large suitcase, left it by the front door, called a solicitor, set a meeting. When I decided, I went allin. No compromise. It was my rule, my creed.
Mark never came. No call, no text. Two days of deafening silence. I began to wonderdid he really not care? Did twelve years mean nothing, not even a chance to explain?
On the third morning, the phone rang. An unfamiliar number.
Mrs. Alice Turner? asked a calm female voice. This is St. Marys Hospital, Ward 12. Your husband, Mark Turner, has been admitted with a hypertensive crisis. His condition is serious. Please come immediately.
The world shattered, pieces falling like glass. All my rage and bitterness dissolved into primal terror. Its my fault! My accusations drove him to the hospital! hammered in my head.
Without thinking, I grabbed the nearest bag, hailed a taxi, and sped to the hospital. In the ICU, Mark lay pale, motionless, almost translucent. Tubes snaked into his arms, wires from beeping monitors clung to his body. A tired doctor, about fifty, muttered about severe stress, a sudden bloodpressure spike, a microstroke risk.
Hes in a light coma, the doctor said softly. A druginduced sleep. He can probably hear you. Speaking to him is crucial for his recovery.
I sat on the edge of the bed, took his cold hand in mine. Mark, Im sorry, I whispered, tears streaming down my cheeksnow tears of contrition. I never meant for this. Please get better. Well sort everything. Just come back to me.
I returned day after day, from morning till night, sitting by his bedside, reading his favourite books aloud, crying, pleading for forgiveness. Doctors shruggedhis condition remained grave, no improvement.
Darling, Im to blame for everything, I told him, leaning over. I nagged you day and night, never gave you peace, never understood you. Of course you sought comfort elsewhere. I pushed you into someone elses arms. Its my fault. Forgive me. Come back, and well start anew.
A week passed. I abandoned my freelance work, turned away all clients, ignored every call. All that mattered was his awakening.
On a Friday evening, as I left the ward, a small girl approached. Six years old, twin pigtails tied with blue ribbons, big blue eyes filled with an unsettling adultlike seriousness.
Auntie, do you visit Uncle Mark? she asked softly.
Yes, dear, I managed a strained smile. Hes my husband.
The girl nodded. Im Poppy. My dad works in security here. I come after nursery while his shift ends. I sometimes bring Uncle Mark a coffee from the staff room. He asks for it.
I frowned. Coffee? Poppy, but hes in a coma. He cant ask for coffee.
Poppy looked genuinely surprised. No, hes not sleeping. He walks, talks, even laughs. Only when you leave does he lie back down and close his eyes.
My knees felt like jelly. I crouched to be at her level, took her hand.
Poppy, are you sure? Did you really see him get up?
Absolutely! she exclaimed. Yesterday he danced with Aunt Katie. Shes gorgeous, redhaired, brings him tasty food. They laugh loudly together. When you come, Aunt Katie hides in the bathroom.
I stopped breathing. The air grew thick, viscous. Poppy why are you telling me this?
She gazed at me with childlike compassion. I feel sorry for you, Auntie. You always cry. And Uncle Mark tells Aunt Katie what you said, and they both laugh. My dad says adults shouldnt meddle, but I cant stand seeing you hurt.
I rose slowly, legs trembling. Thank you, Poppy. Youre brave and honest.
I left the hospital, climbed into my car, but my hands shook so hard I couldnt turn the key. It seemed he had been pretending all along, staging a drama to make me feel guilty, to keep me under his control while he lived a double life with his lover in the very ward.
That night, around nine, I returned to the hospital. A guard at the doorPoppys father, a stern man with tired eyesgave me a silent, sympathetic nod and let me in.
I slipped silently to Marks room. The door was ajar, a sliver of light spilling out, muffled voices and laughter drifting in. A male voice, bright and mocking: and then my little chickgirl comes in, saying Mark, Im sorry, Im to blame! Its just a joke!
A female voice, the same as on the phone, hissed, Mark, how could you? She must love my future half of the flat! Ill stay for the money, then well split and Ill sue for moral damages.
I shoved the door open. Mark sat on the bed, dressed in a hospital gown, looking perfectly healthy. On his lap lay the gingerhaired woman from the photos, halfnaked, a cheap bottle of wine and empty food containers scattered on the nightstand.
They froze, like actors caught in a sudden spotlight.
Alice Mark stammered, trying to rise.
I raised my hand, stopping him. No word. Silence.
My voice was low, but steel rang through it, making him flinch. I pulled out my phone, snapped a few clear shots: him, the woman, the wine, the scattered clothes.
For the court. No more questions, I said coldly.
Mark finally leapt from the bed, pushing the woman away. Alice, listen, I can explain! Its not what you think!
Explain to the judge. And now enjoy your freedom, I turned and left the room, my back straight, heart a cold fire.
In the car I dialed the bank. Good afternoon. Please block all cards linked to my account, including any issued to my husband, Mark Turner.
Then I called the hospital accounts department. This is Alice Turner. Ive been paying for my husbands treatment. Stop the payments. Hes faking it. I have evidence.
Back home I called an emergency locksmith, changed every lock, blacklisted Marks number, packed his remaining things into rubbish bags and left them in the stairwell.
Midnight struck. I collapsed onto the sofa, tears finally flowingnot of pain, but of release. Twelve years of poisonous lies washing away. I whispered, God, how blind I was, a fool who called herself a sweetheart.
The next morning Mark hammered at my door, rang from unknown numbers, shouted at the intercom. I didnt answer. I called the police; they gave him a warning for public disturbance.
The divorce finalized quickly. I had undeniable proofphotos, messages, Poppys testimony. The judge, a stern woman, ruled in my favour. Mark received nothing. Not a penny. Not a square inch of the house.
Alice, please give me something! he pleaded after the hearing. How will I live now?
Ill live as I did before youalone, I replied, looking down at him. Find another sweetheart.
The judge added, Mr. Turner, you simulated a serious illness for personal gain. That is unethical and borders on fraud. You should be grateful Mrs. Turner isnt suing you separately.
With the legal battle over, I threw myself back into work, locking myself in my home office, churning out designs until my mind emptiedonly then could I stop thinking, feeling, remembering.
Two weeks later an unknown number texted: Alice Turner, this is Michael, Poppys father. Our girls birthday is in two days. She begged us to invite a kind aunt who helped her. Could you come?
A genuine smile broke across my facethe first in weeks. Of course. Where? What does Poppy love?
She adores Bratz dolls and anything unicorn. Ill send the address. Thank you, youll make her happy.
On the birthday I arrived with a massive box containing a purplehaired doll and a whole unicorn kingdom, plus a towering cake. A man in his fortiestall, athletic, brown eyes warm but a hint of sadnessopened the door. Alice Turner? Please, come in. Weve been waiting.
The flat was a cheerful creative chaos: childrens drawings on the walls, a Lego box in the corner, the scent of fresh scones and apple crumble filling the air. It felt warm, truly warmsomething Id missed all those years.
Poppy burst out of the living room, flinging herself around my neck. Aunt Alice! Youre here! Im so happy!
We celebrated together, sipping tea with apple crumble that Michael had baked. Poppy proudly showed her drawings, told silly nursery stories.
Sorry for the mess, Michael said sheepishly, clearing the table. Its hard with one child. My wife died in childbirth complications, so its just me and Poppy.
It feels wonderful here, I admitted, truth shining in my voice. It smells like real life.
Michael looked at me earnestly. Poppy told me you helped her see something. Im sorry she intervened. I scolded her, but she has her own sense of justice.
I owe your daughter everything, I said, my voice trembling. If she hadnt spoken up, Id still be blaming myself for his deceit. Twelve years I lived for a man who used me as a purse.
Youre not at fault, Michael said firmly. Toxic people shift blame like a weapon. You were just caught in their crossfire.
We talked until night fell. Michael listened without interrupting, never judging. He shared his tenyear career in security, his dream of moving out of the city to a house with a garden for Poppy and a dogRex, a shepherd hed always wanted.
Youre an incredible woman, he said as he saw me to the door. Strong. Not everyone would pull themselves together after such betrayal.
I blushed. Thank you. Youre a wonderful father. Poppys lucky.
The next day Michael texted, Thanks for brightening our modest celebration. Poppy keeps saying she wants you as her best friend. Maybe we could all meet up this weekend?
I agreed. We began strolling in the park, watching Poppy rollerblade, feeding ducks on the riverbank, wandering the zoo. She darted ahead, and I found myself laughing freely, the weight lifted.
Youre perfect, Michael said one evening at a cosy café where Poppy had fallen asleep on my shoulder. Beautiful, smart, kind, strong. How could anyone not cherish you?
Exhusband, I corrected with a warm smile, is now just a page in my past. Youre a good man, Michael.
Our texts became daily, then nightly calls that stretched into dawn, swapping stories of childhood, broken dreams, what a real, honest family should be.
Three months after the divorce, Mark tried a desperate ambush at my building. He grabbed my elbow as I stepped out.
Alice, lets fix this. Ive changed. I got a proper job. Its over with Katie. Im lost without you.
I calmly slipped my arm free. Mark, Im marrying someone who sees me as a woman, not a sweetheart. Forget me. Youre a nightmare Im glad to wake from.
What about me?! he shouted, his voice cracking.
I dont care about you anymore. Good luck, I said, turning to the car waiting where Michael and Poppy were already seated, smiling.
We drove away, heading for the countryside, to a charming cottage for a weekend getaway.
In the back seat, Poppy chattered, Dad, are we going to put up a tent? Swim in the lake? Will Aunt Alice stay with us forever?
Michael and I exchanged a glance. Love and hope flickered in his eyes. Forever, he whispered. If Aunt Alices okay with it.
Im okay, I replied, tears of joy sliding down my cheeks. Im more than okay.
Poppy clapped, Yay! I finally have a real mum!
At the cottage we lived in a snug wooden chalet. Michael grilled steak on the patio, Poppy helped proudly, I set the table on the porch. At night we gathered around the fire, roasting marshmallows, singing with Michaels guitar, swapping funny anecdotes.
Everything feels better together, Poppy murmured before drifting to sleep in her loft bedroom. Everyone in nursery has a mum and dad. Now I have mine too.
Later I slipped out onto the verandah, finding Michael gazing at the starstrewn sky.
Thank you, I said, sitting beside him. For coming into my life, for accepting my baggage.
Its my gratitude to say, he replied, hugging me. For letting me be part of this little family. Poppy adores you. I love you. Since the day you arrived with that massive cake, lost but strong.
I love you too, I whispered, finally allowing the words out. I was scared to admit it. It seemed too early after everything
Time is relative, he murmured, kissing my forehead. What matters is now, he pressed his hand to my heart. Youre the one.
We married six months later, a quiet, heartfelt ceremony surrounded by close friends. Poppy was the happiest bridesmaid in her white frock, clutching a tiny basket of rose petals.
Now youre officially my mum and dad! she announced to every guest. The best on the planet!
Soon we moved into a lovely suburban house with a big garden, a garage, and a spot for a dogAs the first light of dawn spilled over the garden, Alice rested her head on Michaels shoulder, feeling for the first time in years that she truly belonged.
