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?

I studied his face. He had Richard’s eyes and Richard’s jawline.

Then I found something else. It was a birth announcement from a local Duluth paper dated 18 years ago.

Richard and Diane Patterson were pleased to announce the arrival of their daughter Sophie Marie. A daughter. They had a daughter.

I closed the laptop and walked upstairs to our bedroom. I opened Richard’s closet and looked at his clothes, neatly arranged by color and season, just as he liked them.

I opened his dresser drawers. Everything was orderly and organized perfectly.

Compartments and Parallel Lives

Then I went to the guest room closet, the one we used for storage. I pulled down the boxes labeled “Richard’s Files” and I began to search.

I found bank statements for an account I’d never heard of. There were regular deposits matching the amounts from his paychecks, split neatly down the middle.

Half went to our joint account, and half to this other account. I found copies of deeds for a house in Duluth purchased 27 years ago and paid off 10 years ago.

I found credit card statements showing purchases in Duluth, regular as clockwork. There were groceries every week and utilities every month.

It was a life running parallel to ours, funded by the same paycheck. I found birthday cards that said, “To Dad with love, Marcus” and “Happy Father’s Day, Daddy, love Sophie.”

It was childish handwriting that grew more sophisticated over the years. I found photos of Richard and Diane on a beach somewhere.

I saw Richard teaching a young boy to fish. I saw Richard at a piano recital, beaming at a little girl in a pink dress.

I found a calendar carefully marked “M” for Minneapolis and “D” for Duluth. The pattern was clear.

It was three days here and four days there. It was week after week, year after year.

I put everything back exactly as I’d found it. Then I called my daughter.

“Mom, is Dad okay? The hospital said—” Jennifer said.

“Jennifer, I need you to listen to me very carefully.” I told her.

I told her everything. She was silent for a long time after I finished.

“Mom,” she finally said, her voice shaking.

“What are you going to do?” Jennifer asked.

“I don’t know yet,” I said.

And that was the truth. I hung up and I sat in the silence of our house.

This house had been my entire world for 30 years. I realized that it had never been enough.

I had never been enough. While I was raising our daughter, hosting his colleagues, and managing his household, he was building another life.

He was building another family and another world where I did not exist. The anger came then.

It was not hot and explosive, but cold and clear. I felt it settle into my bones like winter frost.

I did not answer when Richard called again, or when he called a third time, or a fourth. Finally, a text arrived.

“Margaret, I’m getting worried. Please call me.” Richard wrote.

“I’ll pick you up at 9:00. See you then.” I replied.

Fifty Percent of a Life

That night I did not sleep. I sat at the kitchen table and I made a list.

First, I called our family lawyer. I didn’t call Richard’s golf buddy, the one he’d used for our estate planning.

I called a different lawyer, a woman Jennifer had recommended. I scheduled an appointment for that afternoon.

Second, I went to the bank when it opened at 8:00. I withdrew half of everything from our joint accounts and opened new accounts in my name only.

Third, I went to the hospital at 9:00 exactly as promised. Richard was sitting on the edge of his bed, dressed and waiting.

He smiled when he saw me. It was that familiar smile I’d woken up to for 35 years.

“There you are,” he said.

“I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me.” Richard said.

“Never,” I said.

I signed his discharge papers and listened to the nurse explain his medications. I nodded in all the right places.

Richard held my hand in the elevator.

“Did everything go okay with your emergency?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Everything’s fine now.” I said.

I drove him home and helped him into the house. I made him comfortable on the couch with his medications and a glass of water.

“You’re awfully quiet,” he said.

“I’m just tired,” I said.

“It’s been a stressful few days.” I said.

“I know. I’m sorry to have worried you.” Richard said.

I looked at him then, really looked at him. This was the man I’d loved for more than three decades.

This was the man who had divided his life into careful compartments. He had given me exactly 50% of his time, his money, and his attention, and had thought that was enough.