I saw him going in and out of another house, accompanied by a beautiful young woman. Thinking she was his mistress, I gathered evidence and left a bouquet of flowers with a provocative note. That same evening, he came home, sat down opposite me, and handed me a set of documents. He suddenly burst into tears and said just one sentence that made me faint…
The November rain in Seattle never truly stopped. It lingered, persistent, turning the city into a pale, ash-gray canvas. I sat in my sedan parked two blocks from the intersection, the wipers blazing but unable to stop the shivers in my chest.
It was Mark’s car. The familiar black Ford Explorer.
And he wasn’t alone.
A woman sat in the passenger seat. She was young. Very young. Her golden hair cascaded down her shoulders, and even through the rain and the foggy car window, I could see her radiant smile as Mark leaned over to say something. He smiled too – a smile I hadn’t seen at home in six months.
They turned onto the road leading up Queen Anne Hill. It was an expensive area, with houses overlooking Elliott Bay. Not a place for us – a middle-class couple struggling with a suburban mortgage.
I followed, keeping a safe distance. My heart felt like it was being squeezed, each beat a sharp, agonizing pain in my chest. Fifteen years of marriage. Two children in high school. And now, I was playing detective in my own life.
The car stopped in front of a small, secluded house, hidden behind old pine trees at the bottom of the slope. The house had a modern design, large glass windows, and looked very cozy and private.
Mark got out of the car, opening an umbrella for the girl. She linked arms with him naturally, as if it were her prerogative. They stood in front of the door, Mark inserted his key – he had his own key – and they both went inside.
The door closed. The lights in the house switched on.
I slumped my head onto the steering wheel, hot tears streaming down my face. It was over. My suspicions of the past three months hadn’t been just my imagination. Late nights, mysterious weekend business trips, the faint scent of unfamiliar cologne on the shirt he hastily tossed into the washing machine… all led to this house.
“The house of love,” I whispered, my voice bitter. He’d bought a new home. For her.
I took out my phone and snapped a picture of the brightly lit house in the rain. Proof. I needed proof for my lawyer. But more than divorce, I wanted him to suffer. I wanted to destroy the fake happiness he was building on my pain.
I called “Midnight Bloom”—a notoriously expensive 24/7 flower delivery service.
“I’d like to order a bouquet,” I said, my voice so cold the operator paused. “Black roses. Or the most somber-looking kind you have. Deliver to…” I read the address of the house on the hill.
“What’s the message, ma’am?”
I took a deep breath, suppressing a sob: “Write: ‘Congratulations on your new home. I hope you’re worth the price my husband paid. I know everything.’ Signed: Mark’s wife.”
I hung up. A feeling of triumph crept into me, but was immediately followed by utter collapse. I drove home aimlessly.
7 p.m. I sat at the dining table in our familiar kitchen. The children had gone to their grandmother’s for the weekend. The house was eerily silent.
I hadn’t cooked. On the table was only a half-empty bottle of red wine and a printed copy of the photo I’d taken that afternoon, neatly placed in Mark’s place.
The sound of a car engine echoed from the yard. The garage door opened. The familiar heavy footsteps.
Mark walked in.
He looked worse than I’d imagined. His face was gaunt, his eyes sunken and dark-circled. The suit he was wearing seemed too big for him compared to last month. He was soaking wet, even though it was only a drizzle. Perhaps he hadn’t used an umbrella.
Mark froze when he saw me sitting in the darkness. He looked at the bottle of wine, then at the photo on the table.
He showed no surprise. No fear. Just an endless weariness that enveloped him. He slowly closed the door, walked to the dining table, and sat down opposite me.
“You were there,” Mark said. Not a question. An affirmation.
“Do you think I’m an idiot?” I hissed, trying to keep my voice from breaking. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing in that house? With that girl? How old is she, Mark? 25? Or 22? The same age as your sister’s eldest daughter?”
Mark was silent. He lowered his head, looking at his hands clasped tightly together on the table.
“I sent flowers there,” I said with a sarcastic laugh. “Your little girlfriend must be crying on the phone right now, right? Or maybe she got scared and ran away?”
Mark looked up. His eyes were red. “Did you send flowers?”
“Yes. To celebrate your new home.”
Mark closed his eyes, a tear rolling down his cheek. He took a deep breath, trembling as he pulled a thick stack of files from his briefcase. The covers were light blue, with the logo of the University of Washington Hospital.
He pushed them toward me.
“Signing the divorce papers?” I asked, my hand gripping my wine glass. “So fast?”
“Open it, Sarah,” his voice hoarse, weak like the rustling of dry leaves.
I stared at him, then snatched the files.
The first page wasn’t the divorce papers.
It was a medical report.
PATIENT: Mark D. Sullivan
DISCUSSION: Stage IV pancreatic cancer (Liver and lung metastases).
PROGNOSIS: 3-6 months (From diagnosis date: 4 months ago).
[Image]
The wine glass slipped from my hand, shattering on the floor. The red wine spilled out like blood.
I read the words over and over again. Pancreatic cancer. Stage IV. Four months ago.
“What… what is this?” I stammered, my throat tightening. “Mark? What kind of joke is this?”
Mark didn’t answer. He turned to the next page. It was a house sale contract. The house on Queen Anne Hill. Buyer: Mark Sullivan. Beneficiary: Sarah Sullivan (Wife).
And the last page. A home healthcare contract.
I saw the young woman’s name. Emily Clarke – Hospice Nurse.
The world around me spun. All sounds seemed to vanish into thin air.
“You…” I couldn’t speak. I looked at the man I’d lived with for fifteen years. Only now did I realize how much thinner he had become. The backaches he’d been complaining about lately. The times he’d skipped dinner. The “strange perfume” smell—it was actually the hospital disinfectant.
Mark slumped his head onto the table, his shoulders shaking violently. He was crying. The sobs, the pain he’d suppressed for months.
“Why?” I whispered, tears streaming down my face. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Mark lifted his head, his face wet with tears. He looked straight into my eyes, eyes filled with all the love and despair of someone about to leave this world.
And he said the words that sent me reeling from the overwhelming pain:
“I bought that house and hired Emily… because I love you so much, Sarah… I didn’t want you and the children to be haunted by the sight of me slowly dying in our own home.”
Darkness descended, and I passed out.
When I woke up, I was lying on the sofa. Mark was sitting on the floor, holding my hand tightly. He was on an IV drip. That young woman—Emily—was in my living room, quietly adjusting the flow of the painkiller.
Seeing my eyes open, Emily approached. She wasn’t the brazen “third party.” She had the gentle, sad eyes of someone who had witnessed too much death.
“Hello, Mrs. Sullivan,” Emily said softly. “I just received the bouquet you sent to the house on the hill.”
I wanted to disappear into the ground. Shame and regret burned in my heart.
“I’m sorry,” I sobbed. “I didn’t know…”
“It’s alright,” Emily smiled, a forgiving smile. “Mr. Mark told me not to say anything until he had everything arranged. He wanted his last days there, so you would remember him only as a healthy husband, not a frail patient.”
I looked at Mark. He had fallen asleep from the painkillers. His face was peaceful, but as pale as a banana leaf.
He intended to leave quietly. He intended to lie, saying he was going on a business trip, or even that he was getting a divorce, only to die alone in that house with a stranger nurse, just to protect me from the pain of witnessing his death.
That foolish, cruel, and great sacrifice broke my heart.
Two weeks later.
Mark didn’t move to the house on the hill. I tore up the nursing contract for that location. I brought him home. Our house.
I, the children, and Emily cared for him together. We turned the living room into a hospital room. We cooked his favorite dishes, even though he could only eat a few spoonfuls. We watched our wedding video, looked at family photos.
Mark passed away on a rainy afternoon, in my arms, listening to the children reading beside me.
After the funeral, I drove up to the house on Queen Anne Hill. It stood there, cold and empty.
I stepped inside. The house was empty, except for a vase on the windowsill.
It was the bouquet of black roses I had sent. They were withered and drooping, but the card was still there.
I picked up the card, turning it over. Mark’s shaky handwriting, hastily written the day he received it, read:
“You were wrong, Sarah. The price I paid wasn’t money or honor. The price I paid was not growing old with you. But this house… even though I can’t live here, it’s still yours. Sell it, and live a brilliant life for me.”
I hugged the dried flowers to my chest, weeping in the desolate house. Outside, the Seattle rain continued to fall, but this time, I knew that after the rain, even though the sky remained gray, I had to keep going. For Mark.
