Alicia smacked my hand away. “I don’t give a damn about your stupid alerts! Get in your car and leave.”
My hands shook. “You’re insane.”
Something inside me snapped. I snatched my phone off the ground, rushed to my car, and slammed the door shut. But instead of driving away, I did the only thing that mattered.
I called 911.
Because whether Troy loved me or not, I wasn’t going to let him die.
The next day, my children and I walked into the hospital, our emotions filled with relief, anger, and unanswered questions.
Troy had barely escaped death.
The doctor told us his heart had slowed to a dangerously low rate, and if an ambulance had arrived just a few minutes later, he wouldn’t have made it.
I wasn’t sure how I felt. This was the man who had walked out on me after 36 years. And yet, when I saw him lying there, pale and weak in that hospital bed, I felt something stir in my chest, something deeper than anger.
Love? Maybe.
When we entered his room, Troy’s eyes widened in shock. He looked at me, then at our children standing beside me, and his expression shifted from surprise to something heavier. Guilt. Shame.
Tears welled in his eyes. My children stayed silent, their faces unreadable.
He looked at me directly. “You saved my life.”
I exhaled slowly. “Yes, I did.”
In that moment, despite everything, we embraced like a family again. My children wrapped their arms around their father, and for a brief second, it felt like the past 36 years weren’t shattered beyond repair.
Then Troy explained what had happened.
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