In the days that followed, Mary stopped asking where William was. His visits became sporadic, lifeless. They exchanged fewer words. She no longer looked for his face at the door or tried to plan little moments to pull them closer.
She wasn’t angry—at least, not in the way she expected. She was grieving something different now: the death of a love she thought would never betray her. The man who held her during storms, who toasted their anniversary with cheap champagne and laughter, who promised to love her in sickness and in health—he had already walked away.
And yet, in that lonely hospital room, Mary began to feel stronger in a different way. The betrayal hurt, yes. But it stripped away illusion. It forced her to see clearly—not just who William had become, but who she was. A woman who loved deeply. Who gave everything. Who didn’t deserve to be abandoned when she needed someone most.