After thirty-two years of marriage, I thought I knew everything about my husband. But when Conor broke his ankle and refused to let me near his cast, I knew something was wrong.
He wouldn’t let me help him shower, kept his medical appointments secret, and grew nervous whenever I approached his injured leg.
Then, one evening, he slipped in the bathroom.
As I rushed to help, the padding around his cast shifted, revealing a long scar above his ankle.
“Conor, what is that?” I whispered.
He quickly covered it with a towel, fear written across his face.
My name is Cynthia, and I’d been married to Conor for thirty-two years. I knew his habits, his quirks, and how demanding he became whenever he was sick. So when his coworker Nathan brought him home with a fractured ankle, I expected weeks of caring for him.
But Conor suddenly wanted to do everything himself.
