Chapter 2: Secrets, Soup, and Shattered Trust

One

When I saw the letters "ALS" on Derek Hartman’s diagnosis report, my knees nearly buckled.

The doctor’s office was freezing—one of those over-air-conditioned hospital rooms. The HVAC rattled overhead, making the room feel even more sterile. My fingers were numb. Three months ago, Derek fell while hiking in the Rockies and was hospitalized. During his stay, I specifically asked the doctor to run a full checkup, hoping for peace of mind. I never expected results like these.

"There’s currently no cure for ALS. We can only use medication to slow its progression, but the outcome is irreversible."

The doctor looked at me with sympathy. His hand hovered for a moment, as if he wanted to reach out but thought better of it.

Derek was just over thirty, handsome and full of life, successful in his career.

He always seemed untouchable. As a top divorce attorney, he was sharp and decisive, cool-headed and rational—the best of the best. His private life was simple and orderly. He loved working out and hiking, and was extremely particular about his quality of life.

Thinking that someone like him would end up paralyzed and unable to care for himself was almost too much to bear. I kept picturing him in his Under Armour running shirt, always competitive, always proud. The idea that ALS would take that from him—it didn’t seem possible.

I sat on the curb, watching people pass by in an endless stream, and stayed there a long time before finally getting up. The sun was setting, and the world felt impossibly big and indifferent. Someone’s dog barked, a car alarm chirped; the ordinary chaos of the city kept going.

I’d made up my mind.

As husband and wife, we should face everything together. No matter what he might become, I would stand by him with our son. The vows had to mean something, even when they didn’t feel real anymore.

When I got home, it was already dark.

The streetlights cast long shadows across the hardwood floor as I walked in. My son, Caleb, was quietly playing chess in his room. At seven, he’d already reached a fifth-grade rating and had been interviewed on the local NBC morning show as a “chess whiz.” His trophies lined the shelves, catching the glow from his little bedside lamp.

"Have you eaten?" I asked, keeping my voice gentle as I tried to steady my emotions.

"Yeah. Aunt Molly made mac and cheese tonight."

He didn’t look up, just kept his eyes on the board. The room smelled like Velveeta and lemon-scented cleaner. I watched him for a moment, small and serious, king in hand.

"Where’s Dad?"

"He went running."

Caleb was quiet and spoke concisely. He never wasted words, never gave away more than he had to. Just like the two of us.

Two hours later, as I sat on the bed debating whether to tell Derek about his condition, he came home.

Dressed in black sportswear, he looked dignified and efficient. I could see the sweat darkening the collar of his shirt, the old Fitbit still clinging to his wrist like a badge of discipline.

I immediately felt anxious. "It’s barely above freezing—how can you wear so little?"

The doctor had warned me: ALS patients suffer muscle atrophy and generate less heat. They can’t afford to catch a cold, or the disease will progress faster. I reached for the thermostat, as if bumping it up a degree could shield him from what was coming.

Derek’s face was blank. "I always dress like this to run."

He tore open an Amazon box, pulled out a camera, and screwed it into the wall above the dresser—dead center, aimed right at the bed. The lens gleamed coldly in the soft light.

I was confused. "Why are you suddenly installing a camera?"

"There have been break-ins nearby. Surveillance makes things safer."

His voice was clipped, dismissive. As if the answer should have been obvious. "Aren’t you worried about privacy leaks?" I asked, since Derek was always obsessed with privacy.

He glanced at me and sneered, "Privacy? Who’d be interested in seeing yours?"

A tangle of emotions churned inside me. I didn’t want to argue. My hands itched to grab the camera and toss it in the trash, but I just gritted my teeth and turned away.

Before bed, he lay down with his back to me, as far away as possible, clearly exhausted and in no mood to talk.

I sighed silently. The blue digital clock glowed 11:14 PM. He’d just wrapped up a high-profile celebrity divorce case. The pressure had just let up; I figured I should let him rest.

In the middle of the night, I woke up restless.

The bed beside me was empty. Derek was gone. The city outside was quiet, the streetlights throwing pale lines across the carpet.

Panic rose in me and I got up to look for him.

He was out on the balcony, standing in the chilly night air in thin pajamas, talking on the phone. Our neighbors’ porch light flickered in the distance. I could see his breath fogging in the cold, his arms wrapped tight around his chest.

I grabbed a coat and headed over.

"I’ll never touch her again..."

His hushed voice drifted to me. I froze in place. The words felt like ice water poured over my spine.

"I’ve sent you the password and account—you can check anytime."

"I swear, I won’t touch her again. I’m done. I’m choosing love over everything."

Through the glass, I stared at Derek.

On his usually cold, indifferent face, intense emotion was surging. His cheeks were flushed, eyes wild, like he was confessing at a revival meeting, not talking to some stranger over the phone.

Watching his flushed, passionate expression, my mind slowly pieced together what he was saying. For a moment, I felt like I didn’t know him at all. I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, fighting the urge to scream or pound on the door.