“Hernias don’t just go away,” she said. “They can get dangerous.”
I blinked. “Nicole, I just told you about it.”
She was already opening her laptop.
“There’s a surgeon,” she said. “Dr. Julian Mercer. Presbyterian St. Luke’s. Five-star reviews. Best in Denver.”
She turned the screen toward me.
His photo stared back. Mid-forties. Clean-cut. The kind of confidence that comes from being very good at what you do.
“You already looked him up,” I said.
“I’m being proactive,” she replied quickly. “You work too hard. Someone has to take care of you.”
It should have felt loving.
Instead, something cold settled in my gut.
I smiled anyway. Nodded. Agreed to call in the morning.
Nicole smiled back. Relief softening her face in a way I didn’t understand at the time.
“Good,” she said. “I just want you to be okay.”
That was the moment everything was set in motion.
I just didn’t know it yet.
September 15th, 2024.
The last day I trusted my wife.
The sun rose over the Rockies, painting the mountains orange through our bedroom window. Nicole made coffee I couldn’t drink, insisting it was “just to smell.” She held my hand during the drive down Colorado Boulevard to UCHealth University Hospital, squeezing it at every stoplight.
“You nervous?” she asked.
“It’s outpatient surgery,” I said. “I’ll be home by lunch.”
Leave a Comment