“France,” he said. “Just a short business trip.”
Then he picked up his suitcase, promised to text when he landed, and walked out the front door like a man with nothing to hide.
And I believed him.
Because I had built my entire life around believing him.
I was a trauma surgeon at St. Vincent’s in Chicago. My world was alarms, crashing vitals, split-second decisions, and families waiting for miracles in plastic chairs.
Ethan worked in medical logistics—polished words, conferences, vendors, constant travel.
We were admired.
No kids yet.
A renovated brownstone.
Retirement accounts.
A lake house in Michigan we were slowly paying off.
We had routines.
Sunday groceries.
