Minutes stretched like slow, heavy breaths as I stood there, confused more than afraid. My husband and his mother weren’t the type to play cruel jokes, and both had been nothing but gentle since my injury. I sat on the bed and tried to distract myself, studying the shifting afternoon light on the ceiling. After a few moments, I noticed something I’d missed before: a small note taped to my nightstand, half-hidden under my water bottle. In my husband’s handwriting, it read, “Rest. Don’t move. We’ll explain soon. Everything is okay.” The message soothed me, but only slightly. It raised more questions than answers, yet its calm tone kept me from spiraling.
It wasn’t long before I heard soft footsteps outside the door—not hurried, not secretive, just steady. The lock clicked again, and the door eased open to reveal my husband, holding a tray with soup, water, and my phone. His mother followed with fresh ice packs. Their expressions weren’t guilty; they were concerned. He explained that the lock had jammed when they closed the door earlier, something that had happened before but rarely. They had left quickly because they heard a loud crash downstairs—our elderly dog had knocked over a stack of dishes—and they didn’t want to worry me until they knew everything was fine. The note had been written in haste, meant to reassure me in case I woke up confused while they were cleaning up. Continue reading…
