The Soup Bag

I came home on my lunch break because my husband said he was too sick to stand. Ethan had texted me three times that morning, asking for soup, medicine, and the soft blanket from the dryer. So I left work early, bought chicken soup from the café near my office, and drove home faster than I should have.

The house was quiet when I opened the front door. Too quiet. No coughing. No television. No sound of someone miserable under blankets. I stepped inside, holding the soup bag carefully, and that was when I heard his voice coming from the bedroom.

He wasn’t weak. He wasn’t coughing. He was speaking clearly, firmly, almost happily. And then he said one sentence that made my hand freeze around the doorknob: “By Friday, my wife won’t be a problem anymore.”