After my husband’s accident, he begged me to hire a nurse to care for him. Weeks later, the kind young caregiver arrived at my door, trembling. “I can’t keep this to myself anymore… It’s about Bryce.” I braced myself, unaware that her next words would shatter my marriage.
The hospital had called at 11:47 p.m. Bryce’s car had skidded off the road and crashed into a pole.
He was rushed into surgery.
Memories flooded me — Bryce’s smile the night we met, how he made me feel like I was the only person in the world, how quickly we became a team.
Bryce was my other half. How could I carry on if he didn’t survive?
I drove to the hospital in a daze, tears blurring my eyes as I remembered the day he proposed. We’d only been together two years, but when it feels right, you don’t question the timing.
Just last night, we were dreaming about our future children.
“Two kids,” Bryce had said. “A boy and a girl, with your eyes and my stubborn streak.”
“Good luck if they get your stubbornness,” I teased, and he tickled me until I was laughing hard.
Now everything had flipped upside down.
When I arrived, Bryce was already in surgery. His right leg was badly broken, they said.
I waited for hours.
It felt endless before the surgeon came out.
“Your husband’s doing okay,” he said. “We fixed the bone but there’s nerve damage. He might walk again, but it will take months of rehab — physical therapy, pain management, everything.”
Relief nearly knocked me to the floor. He was alive. But “nerve damage” and “might walk again” haunted me.
“Can I see him?”
A nurse took me to his room. Bryce was hooked to monitors, groggy from anesthesia, but when I took his hand, he squeezed gently and whispered my name.
“We’ll get through this,” I said softly. “We’ll do whatever it takes.”
But reality hit harder than love.
Bryce was in a full leg cast and needed help with everything — showering, dressing, even drinking. My days blurred into rushed lunch breaks and sleepless nights checking on him.
Have you ever been so tired your body aches? That was me every day for weeks.
Between helping Bryce to the bathroom, propping up his leg on pillows, and doing the awkward “bed-to-chair shuffle” the therapist showed me, I felt like running a never-ending race.
“I can’t just lie here while you wear yourself out,” he muttered one night, eyes shining with what I thought was frustration.
The next morning, he begged me. “Please, hire someone. I can’t be alone all day.” Then hesitantly added, “Or maybe Mom could stay? I need family, not strangers.”
The thought of Myrna moving in made my stomach twist, but Bryce insisted, so I called her.
When she told me her “caregiving rate” over the phone, I nearly dropped it.
“Two hundred a day?” I said. “Myrna, that’s more than I earn. More than nurses charge.”
“You get what you pay for,” she snapped. “Bryce deserves the best.”
That was one thing we agreed on, so I hired Nora instead — qualified and half the price.
Nora arrived at 8 a.m. daily, managed Bryce’s meds, therapy, and even got him to watch daytime TV without complaint.
“She’s amazing,” I told my friend Veda over coffee. “Professional but kind. Bryce likes her.”
For weeks, things were steady.
I’d come home to Bryce in bed, softly moaning about a “hard day,” while Nora calmly updated me before leaving.
“Therapy was tough today,” she’d say. “But he’s improving. Slow but sure.”
Bryce would nod from bed. “Nora’s great, but this still hurts.”
But steady can be an illusion. Sometimes the ground shifts before cracks show.
One late October Thursday, Nora lingered at the door, fidgeting like a child about to confess.
“Can we talk?” she whispered, glancing toward the bedroom. “I can’t stay silent anymore. It’s about Bryce.”
My heart pounded.
“Tell me,” I said, stepping outside and closing the door.
Nora swallowed. “I’d gone out for lunch but came back to get my charger.” She hugged herself. “Bryce was walking. Not slow, careful therapy steps, not on crutches. He was moving freely, like nothing was wrong.”
“But that’s good, right?”
She shook her head. “When he saw me, he dropped onto the bed, groaning like he couldn’t stand. Back to ‘helpless mode.’”
Her words hit like cold water.
“I pretended not to notice,” she continued. “Helped him back to bed, grabbed my charger, then froze in the hall. It was so strange seeing him walk. He must’ve thought I’d left. I overheard him on the phone with his mom.”
“What did they say?”
Nora sighed. “He bragged about fooling me, then told her he feels fine. Said he can live off you forever without doing a thing.”
My mind couldn’t believe it.
Bryce — my loving, charming husband — faking his injury? The man I was exhausting myself caring for?
“Are you sure?” I whispered.
Nora nodded, eyes wet. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do.”
I told Nora to stay quiet and come back as usual the next day. I needed time to plan.
I hid the truth and kissed Bryce’s forehead that night like nothing was wrong.
He winced, groaning about fake pain, unaware I was plotting his exposure.
That night I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to his calm breathing. How long had he been deceiving me?
The next morning, I left for work but returned when Nora texted she’d gone to lunch. I parked blocks away and sneaked closer.
Through the kitchen window, I saw him standing tall, phone in one hand, coffee in the other, no crutches.
His voice came through the open window.
“It’s like a free ride, Mom,” Bryce said, and I heard Myrna’s laughter. “She covers everything — even the nurse. I’m not lifting a finger till Christmas! Maybe longer if I’m smart.”
“You’ve always been sharp,” Myrna said.
I recorded everything on my phone.
Walking back, I called a lawyer and locksmith. Funny how fast you can unravel a marriage when you decide.
“This is marital fraud,” the lawyer said. “That video means he won’t get anything extra.”
That evening, Bryce lay in bed, his face twisted into pain.
He looked up with that warm gaze that had won me years ago.
“How was your day, honey?” he asked. “Mine was rough. The pain was terrible.”
I stood at the foot of the bed, staring at the stranger I married.
“I know everything.” I held out divorce papers. “You can walk yourself out.”
His face drained of color. He tried to speak, then faltered.
“You’ve got it wrong,” he stammered. “I was just—”
“Faking it and bragging to your mom. I know everything.” I tossed his clothes into a trash bag. “Call Mommy to pick you up, or I’ll call the cops.”
He moved into Myrna’s spare room. For weeks, he begged for another chance.
I ignored him.
Nora stayed on as my tenant, helping with rent and legal fees — a bright spot in the chaos Bryce left behind.
She turned out to be a great roommate — far better company than my lying husband ever was.