When people talk about marriage vows “for better or worse, in sickness and in health,” they often speak as if the words themselves can hold a relationship together. But when I lay in that hospital bed, pretending to be in a coma, I realized those vows mean little when love turns into convenience.
My name is Isabelle, and for years, I believed I had everything. A thriving design business, a sprawling estate by the lake, and a husband I adored, Caleb. We’d been married for twelve years, built from nothing together. Or at least, that’s what I thought.
Caleb had been charming, once an ambitious man who supported my dreams and celebrated every milestone with me. But over the past few years, his enthusiasm dulled. The compliments stopped, replaced with subtle criticisms. He began coming home later and later, claiming “meetings” that left him smelling of perfume that wasn’t mine.
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