An Awkward Wife
Sarah slowly drifted upward through the heaviness of pain and sound, as if rising from the bottom of a deep well.
Mrs. Smith, we can see youre regaining consciousness. Try to open your eyes, came a voicemuffled and distantfrom someone she didnt recognise.
She tried to obey, but her eyelids felt as heavy as lead. Her body wouldnt respond, feeling distant and aching all over, every muscle sore. A sharp, insistent beep echoed in her ears.
There was the unmistakable scent of hospital: sharp disinfectant and a medicinal, bitter undertone.
There we go, the voice was much closer this time. Youre breathing on your own. Good.
With great effort, Sarah blinked. Light stung her eyes, forcing her to squint shut again. The world was a blur: white ceiling, pale walls, a tube running from her arm.
A man, elderly and with a face cut by deep wrinkles, loomed above her. Steel-grey eyes beneath bushy brows watched her attentively. A white cap and a mask, slipped down under his chin.
Where am I she managed to whisper, her voice barely louder than dry leaves tumbling.
Youre in the intensive care unit, he replied steadily, adjusting something on the stand next to the bed. St Marys Central Hospital.
The accident she mumbled. There was an accident
A flash of memory surged and faded: glaring sun through the windscreen, the road Shed been drivingbut where?
Yes, an accident. Do you remember?
I was on my way to the clinic for the check-up. My husband and I we wanted to try IVF. We werent able to have kids…
Thats right, he nodded. Im your doctor, Dr. James Morrison. You were in a very serious car crash.
Her mind was clearing, and with it, her memories crept back. Along with the memories came rising fear.
My husband does he know? Is he alright?
Yes, he knows, Dr. Morrisons voice was clipped, even harsher. He wasnt in the car. Hes absolutely fine.
Sarah frowned, trying to piece her memories together. RightRichard was meant to come to the clinic later, after work. Shed gone alone.
How long have I been here? she asked, a cold dread icing her chest.
The doctor averted his eyes for a brief moment, sighing deeplya sound that seemed thunderous over the beeping of the machines.
You have to gather your strength. But you should know what Im about to tell you will come as a shock.
Go on, she whispered.
The accident happened a long time ago. Youve been unconscious for quite some time.
How longwhat do you mean? A week? Two?
You were in a coma for three years.
The floor of her world dropped away, and she felt herself falling back into the abyss from which shed just escaped.
No her lips trembled. No, you must be mistaken. Or is this some sort of joke
Three years, Dr. Morrison said flatly. You suffered a massive head trauma. Multiple fractures. We barely pulled you through. Honestly, wed almost given up. Your life was hanging by the thinnest of threads.
Three years.
Sarah stared down at her own hand, resting on the sheet. Pale and thin, but her own. Alive.
You were lucky, the doctors tone softened slightly. Youve a rare blood type. We needed urgent transfusions and the bank didnt have any available.
He paused, then added, Your husband saved you. His blood matched. He donated everything he couldeven beyond. A true hero. His blood brought you back.
The doctors words sank weightily into her mind. Richard the donor saved her
Oddly, the thought didnt bring relief. Deep down, something cold and uncomfortable stirred. Sarah clearly remembered her blood typeand was almost certain Richards was different.
She had no strength to argue and slipped willingly into the numb, drugged fog of sleep.
When she next awoke, the ward was quieter. The beeping of machines had faded into background noise. Someone stood by her bed.
A familiar, faintly bitter mens cologne. Richards scent.
She recognised him, even before his face emerged from the shadow. Richard moved closerhis features as finely cut and assured as ever, dark hair slicked back. But there was something different.
His expressionusually impassive, businesslikewas twisted by something shed never seen: icy, almost scornful cruelty.
A nurse moved quietly at the bedsidea plump, kindly woman in her fifties with gentle, weary eyes. She adjusted the drip. Sarah recalled her name: Angela.
Richard bent down so close she could feel his frosty breath.
Darling, he said, his voice smooth, low, for her ears alone. Its so good to see you.
He smiled.
While you were lying here for three years with your drips, I managed to sort out your inheritance.
Sarah blinked in confusion.
What inheritance? What are you talking about? Her tongue barely worked.
The documents, Sarah. The ones you so obligingly signed before you left for your journey. He shrugged lazily. You always signed without looking. Gave me full power of attorney. Remember?
I I didnt
Thank you for signing, really. His poisonous whisper continued. Never thought your naivety would pay off so well.
A memory surfaced: A&E, pain, Richard leaning over the stretcher.
Sweetheart, just sign here, he’d urged. Surgery consent. Pure formality, darling.
Her shaky hand had rushed over page after page, never reading a single word.
Your late fathers business, Richard offered, seeing her muddle. Remember, Arthur Robinson left you that little logistics company? Barely a blipyou wanted nothing to do with it. Well. In three years Ive turned that blip into a gold mine.
He gave a gleeful smirk.
And now its mine. Entirely and absolutely.
Sarah stared, paralysedan icy horror rooting her deeper than any injury. This was not the Richard she had marriednot her husband.
You couldnt she murmured.
I couldand did, he replied languidly.
He straightened, fixed his cuffs on a starched white shirt, and nodded to Angela the nurse:
Take good care of her, Angela.
Sarah closed her eyes, pretending to sleep. She couldnt stand to look at him a moment longer. Hot tears slid beneath her lashes, stinging her temples.
Richards footsteps echoed away, his expensive shoes ringing on the tiles. He left her, alone in this waking nightmare.
Angelas warm hand dabbed her damp cheeks.
Hush now, love, she whispered. Dont cry. Dont waste your strength. Hes not worth your tears.
Thank you Sarah let out in a thread. It took all she had not to sob aloud.
Later, as Angela changed her dressing, she leaned close:
Be strong. If you could come back from this ordeal, youll get through all the rest. And dont think youre the firstor lastwoman tricked by a man like that. Just focus on getting well. The rest will come.
Angelas simple, everyday words were the first tiny fleck of hope in Sarahs total darkness.
Angela
Yes, dearie?
The doctor said that my husband was a donor.
Angelas face hardened.
Who told you that?
Dr. Morrison.
Angela pursed her lips. Listen carefully. She lowered her voice, despite them being alone. Your Richard never donated a drop. Didnt even know his blood type. I was on shift that dayI asked him three times, he shrugged me off.
But how The doctor
Doctor must have been told the wrong thingmaybe by someone, you know. She sighed. Your husband loves looking good. Playing the selfless hero. He told everyone that hed saved you, been your donor. Dr. Morrisons a wonderful doctor, but hopeless with the paperwork. He was told, so he wrote it down.
Then whose blood?
Anonymous donor. Bank brought it in the nick of time. You were luckythats all.
She squeezed Sarahs shoulder.
So you dont owe him your life. Or anything else. Understood?
Sarah nodded slowly. All of itlies. His heroism just as fake as his former tenderness.
At night, when the beeping sounded extra loud, she stared at the ceiling, grappling with how badly shed misjudged him. How the Richard she loved had become this cold, calculating stranger.
As if in mockery, her memory replayed their very first meeting.
Four years agoit felt like a different life.
She had been sprinting down the escalator at the London Underground. Rain, slush, rush hour. Rushing to an interview at a translation agency. Her heel snapped in the melee.
Oh, brilliant she muttered, barely grabbing the handrail.
Flopping along with one shoe, soggy hair, broken umbrellashe felt a complete fool.
Looks like Cinderella lost her patience long before the slipper, a wry velvet voice said beside her.
She looked up. A man in a perfectly tailored coat, expensive cologne and the aura of success. Hardly classically handsome, but radiating such confidence she caught her breath.
I think Cinderellas about to burst into tears, she admitted, trying to smile. Interview in fifteen minutes and look at me.
He sized up her situationnot judging, rather assessing.
They wont hire you, he stated bluntly.
Thanks for your support, Sarah retorted.
Not support, just practical. He offered his hand. Richard.
Sarah, she replied automatically.
Come on, Sarah. Dont bother with the tube.
What do you mean?
Ill take yousort your shoe on the way.
I cantI hardly know you
Well, now you do. His grin was disarming. Consider it an investment in the future. Youre in international relationstranslator, right? Did I guess?
Yes, but
No buts. Not much time to make the best decision of your life.
Richard was always like thatforceful, certain, solving problems instantly. He drove her to her interview, even stopping at a shoe shop.
Ignoring her protests, he bought her a pair of classic court shoes.
These must cost a fortune Sarah whispered.
Think of them as the price of your new job, he reasoned.
She got the job. That evening, Richard himself called:
How are those shoes? Lucky?
How do you know my number?
Sarah, I know everything, he laughed. Dinner?
There was a pauseand she broke it:
Yes.
What began as casual dinner quickly turned into a whirlwind romance. Richard courted her as no one had before: massive bouquets of exotic flowers, extravagant dinners, weekend surprises.
He enveloped her in such attention she melted.
Her younger sister, Emily, watched with a dry scepticism, privately musing how the phrase love is blind must have come from bitter experience.
Later came the introduction to Richards parents.
His father, Thomas Smith, was an old-school, stern, silent man with a heavy gaze.
A translator, eh? he grunted at dinner. Not a serious trade. Women should be having families.
Dad Richard sighed. Were working on it.
Working, are you? In our day, we just got on with it.
His mother, Margaret, a quiet, dignified lady, gave Sarah instant warmth.
Im almost your colleague, she smiled. In a sense. A lifelong English teacher.
You taught? Richard never mentioned
Not much to say, Thomas cut in. All those years in school for peanuts.
Thats not true, Margaret replied gently. I loved my work.
She smiled at Sarah.
I see a kindred spirit in you. Your eyes are clear. You love language, words, their structure.
Very much, Sarah confessed, feeling her tension uncoil.
She and Margaret talked about books all evening. Margaret took her in as one of her own. Her father-in-law remained cold.
Empty-headed, Sarah overheard him mutter as she left the kitchen. Pretty, but empty. Useless for anything serious.
Soon enough, Richard insisted she leave her job.
You were made for better things, hed say, kissing her hand. Youll shine at home, at my side. Youre too clever to waste on paperwork for others. Find fulfillmentart, charity, whatever you fancy.
But I like my job
Youll love this new life more.
Sarah believed him. She quit, became the perfect lady of his country house, hosting immaculate parties, dazzling at gatherings.
Then they wanted children.
A year of trying. Then another. The doctor’s verdict was blunt: infertility.
Its my fault, she wept.
Nonsense, Richard hugged her, with an icy formality. Dont worry about the money. IVF, best clinics, well have our heir.
Grasping desperately for hope, Sarah ignored other things: the chill in Richards eyes, his frequent business trips, his mounting impatience.
Around the same time, her father, Arthur Robinson, fell terribly ill.
Sarah and Emily took turns caring for him. Theyd lost their mum in childhoodwhat should have been an innocent infection led to complications and pneumonia.
Arthur had worked his way up from engineer to independent businessmannot fabulously wealthy, but secure.
Three days before his fiftieth birthday, which hed planned to celebrate in style, he passed away.
The funeral and those dark days after were a fog for Sarah. Richard showed exaggerated care, yet all his talk circled around a single themedetails of the inheritance.
Blinded by grief, Sarah paid it no mind. She realised too late, lying in that hospital ward, what a mistake that had been.
Even all those years ago, at their first meeting, her father-in-law had been right. She had made herself little more than a pretty appendage to a wealthy man.
Two days in hospital passed in a blur, identical, grey. Her husband never visited again. Once stable, Sarah was moved to a four-bed ward. Noisy, full of food smells, but at least life was happening around her.
On the first day, Emily came.
When her sister walked in, Sarah scarcely recognised her. Instead of the nineteen-year-old student she remembered, a grown, worn young woman looked back.
Sarah Sarah Emily sobbed on her shoulder.
Hush, its alright, Sarah stroked her hair. Whats happened? Youve changed so much
Three years, Sarah Emily choked. I was so scared
She pulled herself together and sat on the side of the bed.
Theres terrible news.
What, worse than all this? Sarah forced a smile.
Its Richard
Go on, Em. Im ready.
He he threw me out. From our house. Dads house.
Sarah froze.
What do you mean, threw you out? Its your house too. By the will…
Richard saidit was all his now. Youd signed everything over years ago. I refused to believe it, but he showed the papers. Changed the locks. I got back from uniall my things, in bin bags, at the gate.
Papers. Always papers.
And theres more, Emily pulled out a battered envelope. Hes filed for divorce.
Sarah took the envelope. Her hands shook.
What is it?
Hes accusing you, Emilys voice swelled with outrage, of moral incapacity and ingratitude. After his heroic acthes told everyone how he donated blood to save you!
Thats unexpected, Sarah muttered. And you, where are you now?
In halls. Sharing. Sarah, he took everything. We have nothing left.
Well see about that, Sarah whispered, feeling an unfamiliar steely resolve rising. As long as Im breathing, were not finished.
Emily shrugged, fearful her sister wasnt up to this fight.
Time dragged in hospital, but Sarahs young body clung to life, raising hope in everyoneand in herself.
Richard never showed again. He got updates from the doctor, keeping well away from seeing his wife in person.
Deep down, Sarah suspected the truth: for years, Richard had been waiting for that flat line on the heart monitor.
Two weeks later, she was discharged.
She stood at the hospital gates, a small bag in handpacked and sneaked to her by Angela. She returned her hospital gown and slippers, took a deep breath, and dialled Richards number.
Oh, youre out already, her husband sounded almost cheerful. Wonderful.
Richard, I have no money. My bank cards
Cards are blocked, a sneer in his voice. Youve been dead three years, after all. Of course theyre blocked.
A pause, then coldly, Prepare for divorce. Sorry, but I wasnt about to wait forever for you to come back from the grave. My solicitor will be in touch. Dont call me again.
The line went dead.
Sarah slumped onto a nearby bench. It was May. Three years, three missed springs.
Soon, Emily arrived, bringing jeans and an old t-shirt.
Youd better come back with me, to halls, she said.
Sarah sighed, realising she felt as helpless and bewildered as a child.
Emilys little room, with two beds, a desk heaped with sketchbooks and fabric swatches. Emily was now studying design.
Pale and still weak, Sarah sat by the window. Her past lifethe glamorous wife, the big house, dresses, partiesfelt like a cardboard set that had collapsed.
I have to find a job, she said that evening.
You need to rest! You can barely walk, Emily protested.
Stop it. The doctor said Im medically fit for work. We have no money. I speak three foreign languages; I can work.
She borrowed Emilys battered laptop and opened an English-language website. Read a few linesno trouble following.
Theresee? Its all there.
She opened a document to try translating a paragraph and froze.
She knew the words, understood each one, knew how to render them. But she couldnt piece together an English sentence. The words slipped, tangled, vanished like smoke.
Whats happening? she whispered, panicked, and switched to French.
No luck. She understood, but couldnt make a sentence in her own tonguelike her brain, hands, and speech were divided by glass.
The next morning, Sarah went back to the hospital.
Dr. Morrison listened, frowned, ran a few tests, and finally said:
Im afraid its a side effect. The trauma hit your language centre. Its a form of aphasia.
SoIm disabled? Sarah whispered.
Not permanently, he assured her. You comprehendthats a big sign. With practice, rest, and patience, youll recover over time.
But I dont have time! I need worknow!
Dont rush, he said sympathetically. Let yourself heal. The rest will come.
That evening, Sarah asked Emily,
If I cant translate what do I know how to do?
You ran that house from top to bottom, Emily reminded gently. And you cook brilliantly. You can make a home from nothing.
Housekeeping, Sarah sighed. A skill, I suppose.
The next day, she visited an agency for domestic workers.
The HR woman eyed Sarah up and down.
Work experience?
I kept a large house running, Sarah answered carefully.
Ill put down housewife, the woman snorted. Not quite a profession. Anything else?
She noticed the faded scar on Sarahs temple.
Whats that?
Discharged after an accident, Sarah replied honestly.
Hm the woman pursed her lips. Frankly, you look unwell. We need lively staff. Well call you if something comes up.
Please Sarah clasped her hands. I need any work. Im tidy, I cook, clean, good with children.
The woman sighed. Sarahs desperation clearly moved her.
Theres one temp vacancy. Not easy. Consultant. Dr. Graham Lewis. Needs a live-in nanny for his nine-year-old daughter.
Ill take it.
Hold onI said its hard. Three nannies have walked after one day. His wife died, also in a crash, two years ago. Hes buried himself at work. The daughter is shut down, barely speaks. Youll see for yourself.
The flat was large, quiet, expensivebut utterly lacking in warmth.
Dr. Lewis was tall, stern, unsmiling, with deep-set grey eyes and a face shadowed by grief and exhaustion.
Youre Sarah Robinson, he stated. The agency told me.
He nodded towards the corridor.
Room at the end. Thats Emilys. Settle in.
He vanished into his study.
Sarah gently knocked.
Emily?
No answer. She opened the door just a crack.
A skinny girl with two plaits sat on the floor, absorbed in a tablet. She didnt look up.
Hello, Emily, Sarah said softly. Im Sarah. Im here to help you with your homework.
Silence. No eye contact, no movementjust a faint, nervous tension. She continued staring at her screen.
Sarah sighed. This would be harder than shed thought.
The first days were a true trial.
Dr. Lewis left before dawn, returned late. Emily ignored Sarahs every attemptmechanically eating, bathing, doing homework, before fleeing to her room, tablet in hand.
Having felt loss and betrayal herself, Sarah tuned into the childs silent misery.
On the third night, Sarah walked in without knocking.
Emily, no more screen for tonight, she said gently but firmly.
The girl glanced upwary, almost feral.
You know, Sarah continued breezily, when I was little, I loved making things from clay. Looks like youve got some up there.
Sure enough, a shelf held a pottery and plasticine kit. Sarah picked out a lump and sat on the floor.
Want to make a princess castle together? With towers?
She started kneading. Her fingers, at first clumsy, found old rhythms. Words faltered, but her hands worked steadily.
Emily watched from under her fringe.
Thats wrong, the girl murmured, almost inaudible.
Whats wrong?
The tower. Princesses need a tall one.
She deftly added more, lengthening it.
They moulded in silence for nearly an hour.
Later, as Sarah helped pack away the toys, a battered, thick album turned up from under the bed.
Oh, whats this? Sarah reached for it.
Dont! Emily snatched it away. Its Mums.
Your mums? Sarah asked gently. She drew?
The girl nodded, opening the first page with real tenderness.
It wasnt a photo albumrather, lively, loving sketches: fantasy creatures, wooden jigsaws, plush animals. So real they seemed to almost move.
Thats wonderful Sarah breathed with admiration.
The more she leafed through, the clearer it became: not just pictures, but carefully designed educational toys. On the last pagea little logo: a bird with a building block in its beak and the words: Elenas StudioClever Toys for Special Children.
Special? Sarah queried.
Mum wanted a studio, Emily sniffled, pressing into Sarahs arm. For children like Michael.
Michael?
My friend. My mums friends son. He he doesnt speak. Mum said children like him need different toys. Dad said it was silly though.
Sarah stroked Emilys hair, studying the sketches. This wasnt a hobbyit was calling, burning with life.
She barely slept that night, fixated on the album, on ElenaEmilys mum, and the child aching for her.
She decided: the dream must live on.
The following evening, she waited for Dr. Lewis to come home. He entered the kitchen, rubbing his tired eyes.
Emily asleep? he asked on autopilot.
Yes. And I need a word.
She set the album on the table.
Grahams hand paused in mid-air, still holding his glass.
Where did you get that? he said, voice cold.
Emily and I found it. Its brilliant, Dr. Lewis…
Put it back, he barked. Now. You had no right. Its personal.
On the contrary, Sarah replied, surprising even herself with her firmness. Its your wifes dream. And your daughters too.
Dont you dare mention my wife. You dont know anything about her!
Maybe not, Sarah retorted. But I know your daughter. She lights up when she holds that album.
Emily appeared in the doorwaybarefoot, in her pyjamas.
Dad, dont shout at Auntie Sarah.
Grahams anger evaporated into confusion, pain.
Emily, darling, go to bed.
Its Mums album, Emily clutched it to her chest. Were making toys with Auntie Sarah.
Her eyes held a bright spark Sarah guessed Graham hadnt seen in two years.
He looked from Emily to Sarah, sighed, defeated.
Do what you want, he said dully. Itll come to nothing.
He turned away, adding, Dont expect any money. I wont be involved.
He disappeared into his study.
Sarah didnt give up.
That night, she rang her sister.
Em, youre a designer. Know about this stuff?
Know about what?
We need your help. Its all kicking off over here.
They got started together.
In the guest room-turned-workshop, Emily brought her laptop and tablet over each evening. With their last pennies, they bought plywood, paint, fabrics. Sarah supplied taste and newfound craft skills; Emily provided design instinct and technical know-how. Together, they made their first prototypes.
At first, Graham acted as if the project didnt exist.
One day, Sarah overheard him on the phone in his study:
Marina, hi, its Graham Lewis. The nannyshes started some funny project toys, yeah, for special-needs kids. Like Elena planned. Dont know, really pop over and look, will you?
The next day, Marina, a warm, intelligent woman in her forties, arrived, with a shy boy clinging to her skirt.
This is Michael, she explained, smoothing his hair. Hes on the autistic spectrum.
Sarah nodded in understanding.
She brought out the rainbow wooden puzzle shed finished with Emily the day before and placed it before Michael.
He stopped rocking, reaching hesitantly for one arch, examining it, then stacking it carefully.
Marina gasped, hands to her mouth.
Hes never she whispered, tears streaming down. Never.
Michael, oblivious, was transfixed by the rainbow.
Sarah Marina beamed. Families need these toys. Ill tell every parent I know.
For Marina, it was a miracle. For Sarah, it was proof.
Marina became the projects chief enthusiast, introducing yet more families. The studio began to grow.
Em, well need to register as sole traders, at this rate, Sarah said after a week.
Wow, Emilys eyes sparkled.
That evening, Graham came home to a living room transformed into a workshop. Among shavings, fabric scraps, and drawings, Sarah, Emily and Emily the girl packed their first real order into plain brown paper.
He paused in the doorway.
Sarah met his eyeno longer frightened, no longer meekjust calm and resolute. Graham, for once, didnt look away.
Thats the point where I realised how much I had changed. Id lost everything Id built my adult life aroundhusband, home, money, career. But in losing it, Id found the courage to build something real, something that belonged to me, something worth fighting for. Relying on others, or valuable-sounding promises, had been my undoing. Only by trusting myself, even if it meant starting from nothing, could I hope to move forward. And Ill never again give anyone blind trustleast of all a man who demands it.
