Logan, my husband of three years, was always there. Whenever a doctor or a nurse walked into the room, Logan would instantly transform into the picture of the devoted, grieving spouse. He would sit close to my bed, gently taking my hand in his. He would gaze down at me with tragic, sorrowful eyes, exaggerating his lip movements so I could read them easily, mouthing, “I’m here, baby. I love you so much.”
He would ask the nurses questions with a pained expression, nodding solemnly as they wrote down their answers. He played the martyr flawlessly.
But the moment the heavy hospital door clicked shut, the performance ended.
The warmth would instantly vanish from his eyes. His hand would drop mine like a heavy stone. He would slump back into the uncomfortable vinyl recliner in the corner, pull out his phone, and begin furiously typing, an irritated scowl twisting his handsome features. If I whimpered in pain or gestured for water, he wouldn’t look up unless I threw something to catch his attention.
And then, there was Pamela.
