At least, that was my belief until Christmas Day, when everything I thought I knew crumbled around me.
“Andrea, I need to tell you something,” Shawn said, his fingers drumming nervously on the kitchen counter. “My boss called. He needs me to handle an emergency client situation in Boston.”
“During Christmas?” my eyes widened.
“You’ve never had to travel on Christmas before.” I curled my hands around my coffee mug to stay warm.
“Couldn’t someone else handle it?”
“I’ll make it up to you, I promise. We’ll have our own Christmas when I get back.”
I attempted a smile but disappointment weighed heavily on my chest. “When are you leaving?”
“Tonight.
I’m so sorry, honey.”
That evening, as I helped Shawn pack, memories of our time together flooded back to me.
His smile had faded slightly. “I’m so sorry about this trip, darling.”
“I know!” I sat at the edge of the bed. “It’s just… Christmas won’t be the same without you.”
I leaned on his shoulder.
“Promise you’ll call?”
“Every chance I get. I love you.”
“Love you too.”
But I pushed that notion away. It was Shawn, after all.
My name is Shawn. And the man I trusted the most in the world.
Shawn called about 9 p.m., and my phone lit up. My heart leaped.
“Merry Christmas, beautiful,” he said, his tone strangely strained.
“Merry Christmas!
How’s Boston? Did you get the client situation sorted out?”
“It’s… uh… good. Listen, I can’t really talk right now.
I have to go—”
“I have to go!” he practically shouted. “Emergency meeting!”
I stared at my phone, my hands trembling. What about an emergency meeting?
At 9 p.m. on Christmas Eve? With restaurant noises in the background.
None of it made sense.
Then I recalled my fitness tracker. I left it in his car after we went grocery shopping last weekend. With shaky fingers, I launched the app on my phone.
Shawn’s car wasn’t in Boston.
It was parked at a hotel in our city, less than 15 minutes away from our home.
A hotel? In our city? On Christmas Eve?
“No,” I whispered to myself.
“No, no, no.”
Without thinking, I dashed to my car and drove straight to the hotel.
Shawn’s silver car was immediately in the parking lot when I arrived.
My hands trembled as I marched into the lobby, my heart thumping so hard I feared it might burst.
The receptionist gave me a practiced smile. “Can I help you?”
“This man is my husband. Which room is he in?”
She hesitated.
“Ma’am, I’m not supposed to—”
“Please, I need to know. He told me he was in Boston, but his car is right outside. Please… I have to know what’s going on.”
“Room 412,” she said and slid a keycard across the counter.
“But miss? Sometimes things aren’t what they seem.”
I hardly caught her final remarks as I dashed to the elevator.
Room 412. I didn’t knock… I simply swiped the keycard and burst in.
The words d.i.e.d in my throat.
There was Shawn, standing next to a wheelchair.
And in that wheelchair sat a man with silver-streaked hair and familiar eyes, which I hadn’t seen since I was five.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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