The Coach's Lie, My Final Truth

cheek, her eyes welling up with dramatic tears. "Oh my god! My baby! She hit me! She's trying to hurt m

of it sent me stumbling back, my injured ankle protesting with a fresh wave of agony. I nearly fell again, catching myself on a nearby chair.

ing free and streaming down my face. "She provoked me! She's been provoking me for wee

ze lingered on my gaunt face, my sunken eyes, the dark circles underneath. The anger in his eyes flickered, replaced by a mome

y see. "Yes, Elliott," I said, my voice cracking. "I'm very sick. I've been sick for weeks. Tha

trying to get your sympathy. She probably just has a cold, or she's faking it! She's always so dramatic. She just wants to ruin our happiness!" Her vo

ie's head, his gaze softening. "She's right, Aria," he said, turning back to me, his voice cold again. "You're just b

ved her. He truly believed I was lying, making it all up for attention. The man I ha

althy baby. While I'm just the broken, ailing wife. Convenient, isn't it?" The sarcasm felt like

h step felt heavy, burdened by the weight of my shattered life. The doctor's face was grim as she

ing, and it confirms our initial suspicions." She paused, taking a deep breath. "Yo

of the hospital faded, replaced

my voice barely a whisper. The

l lose mobility, coordination, eventually all bodily functions. Your life expectancy... it's severely

much for, was being stolen from me. And not by a fall, not by bad luck, but by a

atment?" I asked,

success rate of any aggressive treatment is... minimal. Near zero. My re

had known. She had seen my medical reports on the floor, seen the doctor's name, the clinic's letterhead. She had known I was sick. And she had still stomped on my repor

noticed his own wife wasting away. He had accused me of being dramatic, of faking it. The guilt that briefly flick

a life that was never truly mine. My career was gone, my marriage was a lie, my body was failing. There was nothin

echoing emptiness. I walked home, the house still, silent, a monument to a life that no longer existed. The pulled curtains

amed photo of Elliott and me, smiling, triumphant, after my biggest win. His arm was around my waist, his lip

started working. All the things we had accumulated together, the matching towels, the shared books, the sentimental trinkets, the clothes he had left behind – I systematically went through th

carry-on, sat by the door, packed with the few things I still considered truly mine. I had no idea where

y ribs. Who could it be? My eyes darted to the clock. It was late. Maybe Keagan, ch

ed. He stumbled in, reeking of alcohol, and collapsed onto the sofa, groaning. He didn't even not

ng to process what he was seeing. A flicker of something, fear? confusion? pierced through