After My Husband Chose His Mistress Over My Mother

The call came at nine thirty-seven on a Thursday night.

I was standing in the kitchen with a mug of tea I hadn't touched. Cold now. The apartment was quiet. Curtis hadn't come home after our anniversary dinner. I didn't expect him to.

My phone lit up. A Connecticut number I didn't recognize.

"Hello?"

"Is this Nora Kelley?" A woman's voice. Older. Breathless.

"Yes."

"This is Margaret Chen. I live next door to your parents. I'm—I'm in their house right now. Your mother collapsed. She's on the kitchen floor. The ambulance is coming but I thought—I thought you should know."

The mug slipped from my hand. It hit the counter. Didn't break. Tea spread across the marble in a slow dark pool.

"What happened?"

"I don't know. I heard a crash through the wall. I have a key. I came over and found her—" Her voice cracked. "She's breathing but she's not responsive. Her face is—one side is drooping. I think it's a stroke."

My whole body went cold.

"Where's my father?"

"At the library. The university one. He goes Thursday nights for his research group."

"Okay." My voice sounded far away. "Okay. The ambulance—"

"They said ten minutes. But Nora, I don't know if—" She stopped. "She needs specialists. Fast."

I pressed my palm flat against the counter. The tea was cold and sticky under my hand.

Mount Sinai. Curtis's hospital project. He'd spent six months on that design. He knew everyone. The head of neurology. The department chair. He could make one call and get someone dispatched to Connecticut. One call.

"I'll handle it," I said. "Thank you for—thank you."

I hung up. My hands were shaking so hard I almost dropped the phone.

I pulled up Curtis's number. Hit call.

It rang. And rang. And rang.

Voicemail.

I tried again.

Four rings. Voicemail.

I tried a third time. My breath was coming too fast. I couldn't get enough air.

On the fourth call, someone picked up.

"Hello?" A woman's voice. Not Curtis.

I froze.

"Hello?" she said again. Relaxed. Almost amused.

I knew that voice.

"Kataleya," I said. My voice cracked on her name.

A pause. Then: "Oh. Nora. Hi."

I pressed the phone so hard against my ear it hurt.

"I need to talk to Curtis. Right now. It's—it's an emergency."

"He's in the shower," she said. I heard fabric rustling. The soft creak of a mattress. "Can I take a message?"

"No. No, I need him now. My mother—" I couldn't finish the sentence. My throat closed.

"Your mother what?"

"She collapsed. She had a stroke. She needs—Curtis knows people at Mount Sinai. The neurological team. He can get someone to Connecticut. He can make one call and—"

I was begging. I heard myself begging and I didn't care.

"Please. Please just get him. Please."

Silence.

Then I heard it. A soft laugh. Barely there. Like I'd said something funny.

"Kataleya—"

"He's busy, sweetie," she said. Her voice was light. Easy. Like we were talking about dinner plans. "Try 911."

The line went dead.

I stood there. Phone still pressed to my ear. The screen showed the call duration. Forty-three seconds.

I didn't move.

I didn't call back.

I didn't call 911. I didn't call my father. I didn't call anyone.

I just stood there in the kitchen with tea drying sticky on my hand and the phone's screen going dark.

Something inside me—something I'd been holding together with both hands for five years—let go.

Not all at once. Not like breaking.

Like a candle going out. Quiet. Complete.

I set the phone down on the counter. My hand was steady.

I walked to the bedroom. I pulled my suitcase from the closet. I started packing.

I didn't cry.

I didn't feel anything at all.