My Husband’s Mistress Was His Dead Brother’s Wife
Chapter 3
"Oh, Claire," Marissa sighed, her voice dripping with practiced sympathy. "I'm so, so sorry for your loss."
I stared at the white lilies, my eyes already beginning to water, my throat constricting. The same flowers she'd seen me react to at Easter dinner. The same flowers she knew would make me physically uncomfortable. Yet here she stood, wielding them like a weapon disguised as sympathy.
Before I could respond, the door burst open with such force it slammed against the wall. Sarah Miller, my best friend since college, stormed in like an avenging angel, her copper hair flying behind her and her green eyes blazing.
"Where the HELL is your husband?" she demanded, looking from me to Marissa and back again. "I had to hear from the nurses that you lost the baby. The NURSES, Claire!"
Marissa took a step back, clutching the lilies to her chest. "I should go..."
"Yes, you should," Sarah snapped, not bothering to soften her tone. "And take those with you. She's allergic, which you damn well know."
After Marissa slipped out, Sarah sank onto the edge of my bed, taking my hand in hers. The anger drained from her face, replaced by a sorrow that matched the hollow ache in my chest.
"I told him," I whispered. "I told Ethan I want a divorce."
Sarah nodded slowly, unsurprised. "Good."
"You don't think I'm overreacting? Being hormonal?" The words tasted bitter on my tongue.
Sarah's grip on my hand tightened. "Claire, listen to me. This isn't just about last night. This is about the dozen times he's put her first."
She began counting on her fingers: "Your birthday dinner, when he left early because she called crying. Your anniversary, when he invited her along 'so she wouldn't be alone.' Your baby shower, when he spent the whole time hovering around her like she was the pregnant one. Your doctor's appointments that he missed because she needed a ride somewhere."
Each example was a knife twisting in my heart, not because they were revelations, but because they were confirmations. I'd made excuses for each one, rationalized his behavior, blamed myself for being insecure.
"You deserve better," Sarah said firmly. "You always have."
A soft knock interrupted us, and the door opened to reveal Ethan's parents. His mother's eyes were red-rimmed, her usually immaculate appearance disheveled. His father looked older somehow, the lines in his face deeper than they had been at dinner.
"Oh, Claire," his mother whispered, crossing to take my other hand. "We're so sorry."
The genuine grief in her voice broke something in me. These were the would-be grandparents, mourning not just the loss of their grandchild but perhaps the family they had envisioned. Yet here they were, comforting me while their own son was nowhere to be seen.
"Where's Ethan?" his father asked, his voice tight with barely controlled anger.
"With Marissa, I assume," I replied, surprised by how steady my voice sounded.
His mother exchanged a look with his father that spoke volumes. Disappointment. Shame. Anger.
"Claire, dear," she began hesitantly, "I know this is a terrible time, but... are you certain about the divorce? Maybe when the shock wears off..."
I expected to feel doubt at her words, to question my decision. Instead, I felt a strange, calm certainty settle over me.
"I'm certain," I said. "I can't do this anymore."
After they left, promising to return tomorrow, a young nurse named Kelly came in to check my vitals. Her eyes were kind as she adjusted my IV.
"How are you holding up?" she asked softly.
"I'm... surviving," I answered truthfully.
She hesitated, then spoke in a low voice. "I shouldn't say this, but... during your surgery, your husband never once asked about your condition. He sat with that woman the entire time in the waiting area. Not once did he come to the nurses' station to check on you."
The final confirmation. The last nail in the coffin of my marriage.
"Thank you for telling me," I whispered.
As Kelly left, I turned my face to the window. Outside, rain continued to fall, washing the world clean. I placed my hand on my empty womb, feeling the phantom kicks of the baby I would never hold.
I would grieve. I would heal. And I would leave.
But first, I needed a plan.
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