“There’s a surgeon,” she said. “Dr. Julian Mercer. Presbyterian St. Luke’s. Five-star reviews. Best in Denver.”
She turned the screen toward me.
His photo stared back. Mid-forties. Clean-cut. The kind of confidence that comes from being very good at what you do.
“You already looked him up,” I said.
“I’m being proactive,” she replied quickly. “You work too hard. Someone has to take care of you.”
It should have felt loving.
Instead, something cold settled in my gut.
I smiled anyway. Nodded. Agreed to call in the morning.
Nicole smiled back. Relief softening her face in a way I didn’t understand at the time.
“Good,” she said. “I just want you to be okay.”
That was the moment everything was set in motion.
I just didn’t know it yet.
September 15th, 2024.
The last day I trusted my wife.
The sun rose over the Rockies, painting the mountains orange through our bedroom window. Nicole made coffee I couldn’t drink, insisting it was “just to smell.” She held my hand during the drive down Colorado Boulevard to UCHealth University Hospital, squeezing it at every stoplight.
“You nervous?” she asked.
