Neal expected a routine surgery, a few quiet days of recovery, and his wife waiting by his side. But one strange warning before the operation left him questioning everything he thought he knew about his home.
The harsh fluorescent lights of the pre-op room glared down at me. I was 32 years old, lying in a stiff hospital bed, waiting for what the doctors kept calling a “routine surgery.” The sterile smell of alcohol and iodine hung heavy in the air, making my stomach churn with unease.
My wife, Melissa, sat right by my side.
She held my hand tightly, her fingers perfectly manicured. A wide, bright smile was plastered across her face, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“It’s just a minor procedure, Neal,” she said, leaning in.
“I know,” I muttered, shifting against the crinkling paper of the hospital bed. “But I still hate hospitals. Something just feels entirely off today.”
“You are overthinking it, honey,” Melissa replied smoothly. “You always work yourself into a panic.”
“Are you sure everything is ready at home?” I asked.
“Everything is perfect,” she said. “I dropped Chloe off at my mother’s house this morning.”
“Did Chloe cry when you left?” I asked, a pang of guilt hitting my chest.
