My Husband's Mistress Killed His Dad, and He Had No Clue

My Husband's Mistress Killed His Dad, and He Had No Clue

Joy Brown

10.3k Words / Completed
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Introduction

My husband Michael's father and my own father shared the same name—Robert. His was Robert Carter; mine, Robert Smith. I once thought it a sweet coincidence, until that 3 AM phone call turned this quirk of fate into a living nightmare.
The nursing home called to say Robert Carter had died, but when Michael returned from his business trip, he assumed it was my father who had passed. "Old Robert's finally gone," he smirked. "Should've moved him to the cheaper nursing home ages ago." Can you believe it? His own father—the man who'd left him an inheritance—and there he was, helping his medical intern mistress cover up malpractice, dismissing the death as "just some useless old man."
He has no idea he's protecting his father's killer. No clue I've seen through his cold-bloodedness all along.
I wonder, when the truth finally hits him, how will this absurd tragedy end?
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About Author

Joy Brown

Chapter 1

The shrill ring of the telephone dragged me from my light sleep at 3:12 AM.

The other side of the bed was empty; Michael had been called in for another emergency surgery tonight. I fumbled groggily for the nightstand, and as the phone screen lit up, I saw the caller ID: Sunset Manor.

My heart instantly jumped to my throat.

A nursing home calling at three in the morning can never be good news.

I quickly answered, my voice still raspy with sleep. "Hello?"

"Mrs. Carter?" The urgent voice of Sarah, the head nurse, came through. "I'm sorry to wake you, but your husband's father, Robert Carter, had a massive heart attack. He's at Cedars-Sinai ER."

My blood froze instantly.

"What?" I sat up, my mind blank. "Robert... he's..."

"He's gone, Mrs. Carter. I'm so sorry."

The words hit me like a thunderbolt. I felt the world spinning around me. Robert was just... gone? Yesterday afternoon when I visited him, he was complaining about the nursing home's mashed potatoes being too salty, saying he was waiting for Michael to visit...

"Mrs. Carter? Are you there?"

"Yes, yes I'm here," I forced myself back to reality. "I'll be right there."

My hand was still trembling after I hung up. Michael was away on a business trip and won't be home until 5 o'clock at the earliest. Looking at the empty bed, an indescribable sadness washed over me.

How long has it been since he visited his own father? A year? Two years?

I quietly got out of bed and threw on some clothes haphazardly. The woman in the mirror looked pale, her eyes brimming with tears. I took a deep breath, telling myself to stay strong. This wasn't the time to fall apart.

The hospital's emergency department was brightly lit, the smell of antiseptic suffocating. I found Dr. Morrison, the ER chief, a middle-aged man with graying hair. His expression was even more solemn than I had imagined.

"Mrs. Carter, please sit down." His voice was gentle, but I could hear the guilt in it.

"What exactly happened?" I clutched the tissue in my hand tightly. "Robert... his health was always so good."

Dr. Morrison sighed heavily. "I need to be honest with you. This was a medical error. Our intern, Jessica Rodriguez, made a mistake with your father-in-law's medication. She was supposed to administer nitroglycerin, but she grabbed the wrong medication and injected epinephrine instead."

I felt dizzy. "That killed him?"

"His heart couldn't handle it. The adrenaline triggered a massive cardiac arrest. We tried everything we could, but..."

My vision blurred as tears finally streamed down my face.

Robert Carter, that stubborn but kind-hearted old man, lost his life because of a stupid mistake. He was still waiting for Michael to visit him, still talking about wanting to taste my apple pie...

"We'll take full responsibility," Dr. Morrison continued. "The hospital's legal department will contact you about the next steps..."

I didn't catch what he said after that. I just nodded mechanically, my mind in chaos. I needed to notify Michael; he had to know about this. Despite their cold relationship, Robert was still his father.

Leaving the hospital, I stood in the parking lot, the night wind biting cold against my face. With trembling hands, I dialed Michael's cell phone.

The phone rang for a long time before he answered, medical equipment sounds in the background.

"Emily?" Michael's voice sounded exhausted. "Why are you calling at this hour?"

I took a deep breath, trying to keep my voice steady. "Michael, Dad died."

Silence hung on the line for a few seconds, then came Michael's cold voice: "I'm on my way home. We'll talk when I get home."

"Michael, listen to me—" I wanted to explain, to tell him it was his father Robert Carter, not my father, but the line went dead.

He had hung up.

I stood in the empty parking lot, holding my now-dark phone, a chill I'd never felt before rising in my heart. He didn't even ask what happened before hanging up. Was my father's death so insignificant to him?

He couldn't spare even ten seconds to ask how or why.

At 6 AM, I dragged my exhausted body home. The living room was brightly lit, sports playing on TV. Michael was lounging on the couch, drinking beer with a bag of chips in hand. He seemed to have just returned.

Seeing my swollen eyes and haggard appearance, he didn't even look up, his tone chillingly casual: "So old Robert finally kicked the bucket? Honestly, it's for the best. I've been saying for ages we should have moved him to a cheaper place."

I froze on the spot.

He thinks it was my father who died.

Yes, both our fathers were named Robert—my father Robert Smith and his father Robert Carter. We once thought it was a sweet coincidence, but now...

He had no idea his own father was dead.

What shocked me even more was that in his eyes, my father's death was actually a "good thing."

I stood in the middle of the living room, staring at this man I thought I knew. Eight years of marriage, and I thought we were in love. But at this moment, I felt like I'd never truly known him at all.

"Emily?" Michael finally looked up at me. "What's wrong? Why aren't you saying anything?"

I opened my mouth but found myself speechless. How could I tell him? How could I tell him it wasn't my father who died, but his own? How could I tell him his father had been waiting for him in his final moments?

But more importantly, did I even want to tell him?

Looking at his completely unconcerned expression, I suddenly felt that perhaps he didn't deserve to know the truth.

"Nothing," I heard myself say calmly. "I'm tired. I'm going to bed."

"Sure, get some rest. We'll deal with the arrangements tomorrow, though I doubt there's much to handle." Michael turned his attention back to the TV. "Oh, and make sure to contact a funeral home—get the cheap option."

I didn't answer, silently walking toward the stairs.

Each step felt like walking on knife edges.

Sometimes the most painful revelations aren't about death, but about the living.

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