In the Hospital Alone, While He Stayed by Her Side

After spraining my ankle, I took a taxi alone to the hospital for treatment. The nurse asked if my family was around, and, without much thought, I came up with an excuse on his behalf. Lying in the hospital bed, I felt a hollow ache in the pit of my stomach.

I unlocked my phone and saw that his best friend had posted an update:

"Life’s easy when there’s no tigress around to keep watch. Erik really has a soft spot for Polly."

In the post was a photo of Erik Dean, looking tenderly at his childhood sweetheart as she lay in a hospital bed. I gave it a like, but the post disappeared almost immediately.

A moment later, Erik messaged me, offering a careful explanation. I responded with a calm smile: “Hope you’re having a good time.”

He panicked, replying, “Alyce, why aren’t you checking on me?”

——

Earlier, I had rushed home for our anniversary, only to slip on the stairs and injure my ankle. Before going to the hospital, I’d messaged him, hoping he could pick me up after work. I’d waited, flowers in hand, ready to surprise him.

He replied curtly, "There’s a drinking party tonight. Just get whatever you want for dinner." Then, as if to head off any questions, he added, "No strangers—just friends from back in the day." It felt like someone had doused me in ice water. I tossed the flowers into the trash and took a taxi to the hospital.

When the doctor asked about my family, I automatically answered, "He’s in a meeting." Realizing how ridiculous that sounded, I amended it, “Actually, I’m... a widow.”

The procedure went smoothly. There was no physical pain, but a deep emptiness gnawed at me, as though something vital had been torn away.

On the way back in the taxi, I caught a glimpse of his familiar car heading toward the hospital. On impulse, I reached for my phone, thinking about asking Erik why he was there. But just then, I saw his best friend’s latest post on social media: Life’s easy when there’s no tigress around to keep watch. Erik really has a soft spot for Polly." Attached was a photo of Erik gazing tenderly at his childhood sweetheart, Polly Parrish, lying on a hospital bed.

Their friend group had always been tight—four boys and one girl, growing up together. In that circle, Erik and Polly had been the "golden boy and jade girl," the ideal couple. If Polly hadn’t been persuaded to marry a foreigner, I never would have had the chance to marry him.

But when she returned to America, divorced and with a young son, I instantly became the villain, the outsider who had supposedly broken up this “fairy-tale” pair. No one blamed Polly for leaving Erik; instead, they cast me as the intruder.

This group often went out, drinking late into the night. Knowing Erik’s weak stomach, I’d call to remind him to come home, hoping to spare him any trouble. My concern only deepened their dislike; they saw me as a wet blanket and, behind my back, dubbed me “The Tigress.”

Whenever his friends visited our home, they treated me like some glorified housekeeper. Today, yet again, Erik had chosen them over me. Maybe it’s better this way; at least now, I won’t be tempted to soften.

I liked his friend’s post on Instagram, though it quickly disappeared, as if they’d forgotten to block me from seeing it.

Around three in the morning, Erik finally stumbled in, reeking of alcohol. He lingered in the kitchen before quietly opening the bedroom door. When he saw I was awake, a brief flash of panic crossed his face, but he moved closer, gently pulling the quilt over me.

“No sobering soup for me tonight?” he asked softly.

I hummed in response, my gaze shifting away. Beneath the heavy scent of alcohol, a faint trace of perfume lingered, and it made my stomach turn.

He sighed, as if he wanted to say more but thought better of it. Instead, he left with a single line: “You’re pregnant. Get some rest.”