That afternoon, I returned to the brownstone, packed my clothes, degrees, and books into two suitcases, and placed my wedding ring squarely on top of my hospital discharge summary on the dining room table.
I moved into a furnished short-term apartment in Gold Coast, changed my phone number, and directed every form of communication through Sarah.
Two weeks later, Marcus was attending a catered reception in the hospital’s twelfth-floor conference center to celebrate the completion of his project when a court process server entered the room carrying a manila envelope.
“Dr. Marcus Hayes? Personal service.”
Marcus opened the envelope in front of his colleagues and residents. Within three seconds, the triumphant smile disappeared from his face.
It was a petition for dissolution of marriage.
And Marcus had no idea that losing his wife was only the beginning of what was about to unfold.
For illustration purposes only
Marcus folded the legal notice so quickly that the paper ripped along the seam.
“Administrative error,” he muttered to his colleagues, stuffing the document into his coat pocket.
But when he returned to the Lincoln Park house that evening and discovered empty closets, cleared dresser drawers, and his wife’s wedding band sitting on top of an emergency room discharge form, the illusion collapsed.
He couldn’t call me because his number was blocked. So he called my mother. He contacted our mutual friends.
