The day we’d prayed so hard for had finally come! My dad woke up after a year in a coma. Our whole family gathered around him, bringing flowers and balloons.
He looked weak, but his eyes were filled with happiness. Me: “Dad, how was it? Did you have dreams or just nothing?”
Him: (slowly pronouncing each word) “Not only dreams, son… I heard EVERYTHING that happened in this room.”
Everyone gasped.
Him: “There’s something you need to know about your wife. She’s not what you think she is.”
I looked at Leah, who had gone pale. Him: (continuing) “Once, she came here—without you.”
The room fell into a heavy silence.
I could feel my pulse in my throat. Leah gripped my arm, but her hand was cold, shaking. “Dad,” I said, forcing a calm tone, “what are you talking about?”
His breathing grew a bit heavier.
My sister, Norah, stepped in with a glass of water, but he waved her off. “She was here… late at night. She thought I was out cold.” He paused, taking a deep breath.
“She was with another man.”
My stomach dropped. Leah’s voice cracked as she jumped in, “Ethan, he must be confused. The medication—he doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
I searched Dad’s face.
Tired, yes. Confused? No.
“Who was the man, Dad?”
He shook his head slowly. “I don’t know his name. But I heard them.
They whispered. He called her baby. She called him love.
They talked about how ‘this whole situation might end soon.’”
Leah’s nails dug into my skin. “He’s hallucinating, Ethan. Please, don’t do this here.”
But I couldn’t un-hear what Dad said.
His eyes were too clear, too focused. That night, I couldn’t sleep. My brain kept spinning.
Leah acted as if nothing happened, even tried to cuddle up to me. But I couldn’t bring myself to hold her. The next day, I decided to check the hospital’s visitor logs.
I told Leah I was going to run some errands. The receptionist, Mrs. Calloway, was kind enough to help me.
She printed the visitor history from the last year. I scanned through the pages. My name was there.
Norah’s. A few friends. But then—twice—there was a name I didn’t recognize: Marcus Varela.
Both times were late at night. Once, about six months ago. Once, just three weeks before Dad woke up.
I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. When I confronted Leah that evening, she barely tried to deny it. “Who is Marcus?” I asked, my voice shaking but controlled.
Her eyes filled with tears instantly. “Ethan… please. It’s not what you think.”
“Then what is it?” I snapped.
“Because my father, in a COMA, heard you whispering sweet nothings to a man named Marcus. And now I find out he visited you here TWICE.”
She sat down, covering her face. “It started months before your dad’s accident.
We had problems, Ethan. You were always at work, stressed, distant.”
“Don’t you dare blame this on me,” I said, my voice low. “I didn’t mean for it to happen,” she sobbed.
“Marcus is someone from my past. He reached out… I was lonely. I was weak.
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