Our Marriage Had Room for Three Chapter 2

On the day I was discharged, Caroline came to pick me up.

She opened the passenger door, her hand hovering gently behind my back in a show of tender care.

I didn't speak the entire ride.

When we reached our building, she got out to grab the luggage.

I limped into the living room and noticed a brown medicine organizer on the coffee table.

A man’s cashmere shawl—not mine—draped over the arm of the sofa.

Beside the TV stand stood a framed black-and-white portrait of Caroline’s late sister, Catherine.

I froze at the entrance.

Behind me, Caroline paused as she kicked off her shoes.

"Jared hasn’t been doing well. He’s having night terrors and can't be left alone. I told him he could stay here for a few days, just until he stabilizes."

I didn't reply. I walked straight toward the master bedroom.

Pushing open the cracked door, I saw Jared sitting on the edge of my bed, sorting small pill bottles.

He was wearing my slippers.

Seeing me, he immediately stood up.

"Jude, you’re back."

His voice was soft, fragile.

"I’m just... I'm terrified of the dark, and I couldn't handle being alone. Caroline said I could stay here for a couple of days. I’ll leave as soon as I’m a bit better. I won't be a burden."

I looked down at the slippers on his feet.

They were the slip-resistant ones I bought after my accident. Caroline had spent hours helping me choose them.

I turned to Caroline.

"He’s staying in the master bedroom?"

Caroline leaned against the doorframe, a strained, conflicted look on her face.

"He had a panic attack the other night and fell. No one found him until morning. The master bedroom is closer to the living room. It's easier to keep an ear out."

"You can take the study for now. I’ve already made up the daybed for you."

A heavy knot tightened in my throat.

There was so much I wanted to say, but not a single word came out.

Not because I was afraid, but because in that exact moment, I realized my place in this home could be packed up and moved at her convenience.

At dinner, Jared sat at the table, ladling soup for Caroline.

He glanced up at me, then quickly lowered his gaze.

"Jude, I know you just got out of the hospital, and I shouldn't be intruding. But Caroline is Catherine’s only sister. If she turns her back on me, I truly have no one left to lean on."

Caroline placed a piece of chicken in my bowl.

"Jude, it hasn't been easy for Jared. Just focus on your recovery. I’ll handle the rest. I won't let you down."

I stared at the food in my bowl.

After dinner, I walked down the hall to my physical therapy room.

The moment I pushed the door open, I knew something was wrong.

The bins on the windowsill that held my knee braces and resistance bands were gone.

In their place stood a wooden easel and several boxes of oil paints.

An index card hung from the easel, written in elegant script: Art Therapy for Emotional Healing.

I stood in the doorway, staring at the easel, as the knot in my throat finally dissolved into cold clarity.

I turned around. Caroline was standing in the hallway.

She spoke first. "Jared's therapist suggested art therapy to manage his anxiety, and we don't have any other spare rooms..."

I cut her off.

"This is my rehabilitation room."

She hesitated.

"Jude, I packed your rehab gear away. I didn't throw it out. Please don't upset yourself, you're still recovering. Once Jared moves back, I’ll put everything back exactly how it was."

I didn't have the energy to fight her.

I just suddenly wanted to know where my hope of walking properly had been stashed.

In the middle of the night, I limped over to the storage closet and opened the door.

My therapy table and heating units were nowhere to be found.

The training clothes I had folded so carefully were gone too. Only a few label stickers lay at the bottom of an empty cardboard box.

The housekeeper crept up behind me. "Sir... those things... Mrs. Grayson said keeping them around would only make you sad about your leg. She had them sent to the charity auction run by Mr. Jared's foundation."

I bent down to pick up a label from the bottom of the box. On it, I had written my weekly milestones and expected recovery dates.

I stared at it for a long time, then folded the paper and squeezed it tightly in my fist.

In this house, even the physical proof of my struggle to heal had to be cleared out for him.

I closed the closet door.

The click of the latch was quiet.

But as it snapped shut, something inside me locked away forever.