I Walked Into My Husband’s Hospital Room And Saw A Woman Holding His Hand. He Said She Was His Sister, But He Is An Only Child. What Should I Do?

The Woman in Room 347

The woman in the hospital bed wasn’t his sister. I stood in the doorway of room 347 holding the overnight bag Richard had asked me to pack.

Inside were his reading glasses, his phone charger, and the crossword puzzle book he always kept on his nightstand. It was everything a devoted wife would bring to her husband recovering from what the doctors called a minor heart episode.

But Richard wasn’t alone. A woman sat beside his bed, her hand covering his and her head bent close to his shoulder.

She was perhaps 50, with auburn hair touched with gray. She was wearing a simple blue dress that looked hastily thrown on.

When she lifted her head, I saw her face was blotched with tears. I should have cleared my throat or should have knocked, even though the door was already open.

I should have announced myself in some way. Instead, I stepped back into the hallway and pressed myself against the wall.

My heart was hammering in my chest in a way that had nothing to do with surprise. It had everything to do with a sudden, terrible understanding.

Richard had no sister. He was an only child.

I had known this for 35 years. The bag slipped from my fingers and hit the floor with a dull thud.

Neither of them heard it over their quiet conversation. I couldn’t make out the words, but I heard the tone.

It was intimate and familiar. It was the way two people speak when they’ve shared years, not just moments.

I picked up the bag and walked to the nurse’s station. I told them Mr. Patterson’s sister had arrived and that his wife had been called away on an emergency.

The nurse, a young woman with kind eyes, nodded sympathetically. I drove home in silence.

I didn’t turn on the radio, and I didn’t cry. I simply drove, watching the familiar streets of Minneapolis pass by my windows as if I were seeing them for the first time.

Our house sat at the end of Elmwood Avenue, a two-story colonial we’d bought when Richard made partner at his accounting firm. That was 30 years ago.

We’d raised our daughter Jennifer here. We’d hosted countless dinner parties here, and we’d grown old here.

I parked in the garage and sat in the car for several minutes. I was staring at the wall where Richard had hung his fishing equipment.

He went fishing often, sometimes for entire weekends at the lake house. He always said,

“You know how I need that time to clear my head?”

I had never questioned it. Why would I?

Richard was methodical, predictable, and devoted. He remembered our anniversary every year and kissed me goodbye every morning.

He called me every evening when he was traveling for work. He did that frequently, sometimes for weeks at a time.

I got out of the car and walked into our kitchen. Everything was exactly as I’d left it three hours earlier when the hospital called.

The breakfast dishes were still in the sink. The newspaper was still folded open to the crossword puzzle, half finished in Richard’s careful print.

I sat down at the kitchen table. I did not move for a very long time.

My phone rang eventually, and Richard’s number flashed on the screen. I let it go to voicemail.

Then I listened to the message.

“Margaret honey, where are you?” his voice said.

“The nurse said you had an emergency but you’re not answering. I’m worried. They’re releasing me tomorrow morning. Can you pick me up at 9:00? Love you.” Richard said.

His voice sounded normal and concerned. Nothing in it suggested a man who’d just been caught in a lie that spanned decades.

Footprints in the Digital Age

I deleted the message. Then I opened my laptop and I began to search.

The internet is a remarkable thing. People think they’re invisible in the digital age, but they leave footprints everywhere.

I searched for Richard Patterson, accountant, Minneapolis. I found him as a board member for the Duluth Community Center and a volunteer at Northern Lakes Food Bank in Duluth.

Duluth was two and a half hours north of Minneapolis. I clicked through link after link.

I found a charity gala from three years ago featuring Richard in a tuxedo, his arm around a woman in an emerald dress. The caption read: “Board member Richard Patterson and wife Diane Patterson.”

Wife. I zoomed in on her face.

It was the woman from the hospital. She had auburn hair, though it was younger in this photo, smiling and happy.

I kept searching and found wedding announcements from 26 years ago. Richard Patterson and Diane Morrison were married at St. Paul’s Church in Duluth.

It was a small ceremony with family and friends 26 years ago. This was nine years after Richard and I had married.

I found more photos of Richard at a high school graduation. His arm was around a young man in a cap and gown.

The caption read: “Proud father Richard Patterson with his son Marcus.” A son. Richard had a son.

I searched for Marcus Patterson, Duluth. I found his LinkedIn profile and saw he was age 25, working as a graphic designer in Minneapolis.