He Brought His Mistress to His Wife’s Hospital Bed to Make Her Sell Their House

Fiction. This story is a dramatized work created for entertainment. Names, characters, events, and circumstances are fictional.

The wife lay in her hospital bed, tears in her eyes, wounded that her husband hadn’t come to see her even once since the crash.

She’d been in the accident two days earlier and admitted for treatment, and she’d stayed in bed ever since, with a real possibility that she might never walk again. Two days later, he still hadn’t visited.

Her mind kept spinning, unable to rest, until a few minutes later he appeared. He wasn’t by himself: a beautiful woman came with him, his mistress, there supposedly to see how she was doing.

But the instant he stepped inside, his true reason came out: he hadn’t come for her. He’d brought documents to sell the house that belonged to them both.

He was certain she wouldn’t be able to push back, and he intended to be finished with her, sell the place, and move on with the other woman.

Still, the sight of her husband walking in with his mistress hit her like a blow.

She let a moment go by, taking in what was happening. There was pain in her eyes, but also a spark of determination. She knew she had no strength to fight him physically, yet she still had her intelligence and cunning, and that might be enough to turn the tables completely.

“Mark,” she said, quiet but sure of herself, “I need to sign something.”

Her husband gave a dismissive scoff, sure she was giving in. His mistress looked at him, confused. Emma slowly stretched out her hand for the papers.

Mark handed them over with a pen already uncapped.

Emma read every page. She took her time. The sale price was low and the closing date was Friday, and the line for her signature had been marked with a yellow tab, as if she might miss it.

“These aren’t the ones I meant,” she said.

She pressed the call button beside her hand. Then she reached under her pillow and drew out a flat envelope.

Two days is a long time to lie still. On the first morning, a bank alert had told her that Mark had emptied their joint savings while she was still in surgery. By the first afternoon, she had called a lawyer from this bed. By the second, a judge had signed an order freezing the accounts and barring either of them from selling the house.

She signed the last page of her divorce petition against the bed tray, and held out the copy with his name on it.

“You’ve been served,” she said. “The nurse at the door is my witness.”

Mark turned. The nurse, who had just come in to answer the call, gave a small nod.

He looked at the order, then at the sale contract, which was now worth less than the paper it was printed on.

“You told me she’d agreed,” the younger woman said. Nobody answered her. She picked up her bag and walked out, and her heels were quick in the corridor.

Mark stayed a moment longer, as if there were still something to say. There wasn’t. He left the pen on the blanket.

Emma let her head fall back. Her hands were shaking now that it was finished.

The next morning the physiotherapist wheeled her down to the parallel bars. It took two aides and most of her breath, but she stood for eleven seconds.

She counted every one of them out loud.

Note: This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance.