Our life together felt perfect. He was kind, attentive, everything I’d ever dreamed of. We talked about a future, about forever. I trusted him with my whole heart, truly, completely. I believed we had no secrets.
Then the calls started.
A number I didn’t recognize would flash on his phone. He’d glance at it, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, and let it go to voicemail. He always said it was a wrong number, or an old acquaintance he didn’t want to talk to. Sure, I thought, we all have those.
But the calls grew more frequent. Persistent. Sometimes, his phone would buzz, and he’d practically jump out of his skin. He’d excuse himself, walk into another room, speak in hushed tones I couldn’t quite decipher. When he came back, he’d be different. Distant. Troubled.
“It’s nothing, really,” he’d murmur, avoiding my gaze. “Just… an old thing. Doesn’t matter anymore.”
A woman at the airport | Source: Midjourney
But it did matter. It was eating at him, and by extension, eating at me. He started running out of the house. “Need to clear my head,” he’d say. “Just getting some air.” But the air always seemed to be in the direction of wherever those calls were leading him. He’d disappear for hours, returning with bloodshot eyes and a heavy silence that filled our apartment like a suffocating blanket.
My gut screamed. This is an ex. Every fiber of my being wanted to deny it, but the signs were too obvious. The secrecy. The sudden departures. The way he guarded his phone like a treasure map to some forbidden land. My mind painted pictures I didn’t want to see – stolen kisses, whispered apologies, a life he was living without me. My heart ached with a betrayal that hadn’t even been confirmed, but felt so real it burned.
One evening, the phone rang again. His ex. I just knew it. He looked at the screen, a primal fear seizing his face, then he grabbed his keys. “I have to go,” he said, the words barely a whisper. “Just… for a bit.”
This time, I didn’t ask. This time, I didn’t let him go alone.
My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drum against my chest. I slipped on my shoes, grabbed my own keys, and followed. The drive was a blur of adrenaline and fear. He drove fast, recklessly, like a man possessed. My stomach churned, bracing myself for the inevitable. I pictured him pulling up to her place, rushing inside, my worst fears confirmed.
A mean couple trying to swindle a premium airplane seat | Source: Midjourney
But he didn’t pull up to an apartment. He pulled into the parking lot of the city hospital.
My breath hitched. A hospital? A wave of confusion washed over me, quickly replaced by a fresh surge of terror. Was he sick? Was she sick? What was happening?
I parked discreetly, my hands trembling on the steering wheel. He practically ran inside. I waited a beat, took a deep, shaky breath, and followed him through the automatic doors. The sterile smell, the quiet urgency, it all felt surreal. I kept my distance, watching him scan the directories, then head towards the elevators.
I followed him up, a silent shadow. He walked quickly down a long corridor, past rooms filled with hushed voices and beeping machines. He stopped at a specific door, hesitated, then pushed it open.
I crept closer, my heart in my throat. I pressed my ear to the doorframe, trying to make sense of the muffled sounds inside. Then, a quiet sob. His sob. And another, softer, feminine one.
A rude and arrogant woman on a plane | Source: Midjourney
I couldn’t help myself. I peeked around the corner.
And what I saw left me completely, utterly gutted.
It wasn’t a romantic reunion.
She was there, yes. His ex. But she wasn’t in his arms. She was sitting in a chair beside a hospital bed, her face pale and drawn, her eyes red-rimmed. Her hand was intertwined with a tiny, intravenous-lined hand belonging to a small child, no older than five or six, sleeping fitfully in the bed. A child.
And him. He was on the other side of the bed, leaning over the railings, his shoulders shaking with silent tears. He was stroking the child’s hair with such tenderness, such profound grief, that it ripped through me. He looked up then, meeting the ex’s eyes across the tiny form, and there was no love between them, no lingering affection. Only shared pain. Only a desolate, unspoken agony.
My world didn’t just stop; it imploded. A child? He had a child. A sick child. All this time, I thought he was betraying me with another woman, when he was living a secret life as a father, battling an unspeakable nightmare. The calls weren’t about rekindling old flames; they were urgent updates, desperate pleas for a father to be there. His “running out” wasn’t to a lover’s bed, but to a hospital room, to the bedside of his suffering child.
An upset woman sitting in her seat | Source: Midjourney
And as I stood there, hidden in the shadows of the hospital hallway, watching him sob over the tiny, fragile form in that bed, I understood everything. It wasn’t an ex he was running to; it was a child he was running for. His child. And she was dying.
