The Woman In My Husband's Will

Emma had never liked hospitals. The smell of disinfectant, the cold air from the vents, the quiet voices of people trying not to look afraid. All of it made her uncomfortable. That afternoon, sitting outside the emergency room with her husband's wedding ring pressed between her fingers, she hated the place more than ever.

The double doors had been closed for almost an hour.

A nurse had taken Daniel's name, asked whether Emma was family, and disappeared without answering any of her questions. Since then, Emma had watched people come and go, waiting for someone to tell her there had been a mistake.

Her phone vibrated against her thigh.

Three missed calls from her mother. Two from Daniel's assistant. One from an unfamiliar number.

She turned the phone over without answering.

She wasn't ready to speak to anyone. Not until she knew what was happening to Daniel.

It had been less than two hours since a stranger called to tell her that her husband had been brought to the hospital after a car accident. Emma could barely remember the drive. She remembered traffic, a horn blaring somewhere behind her, and her hands gripping the steering wheel. Through it all, one thought had followed her.

He'll be fine.

Daniel always came home. Even when they argued, he came home. Last night, they'd had a disagreement over something so ordinary that she could hardly remember why either of them had been so stubborn about it. He wanted her to accompany him to dinner with some business associates. She had already promised her sister she'd help with something, and neither of them had been willing to change their plans.

He had left the house annoyed, and Emma had gone to bed feeling just as irritated.

This morning, she'd expected to find him in the kitchen, making coffee and pretending he wasn't still upset. She had even planned what she would say when he tried to act as though nothing had happened.

Instead, a stranger had called to tell her that Daniel might never come home again.

Emma looked down at the ring in her palm. She had taken it off without realizing it, and the metal was still warm from her skin. She slipped it back onto her finger, pressing it down until it sat where it belonged.

“Mrs. Carter?”

She stood so quickly that the chair scraped against the floor.

An older doctor stood a few feet away, his tired eyes fixed on her. His mask hung beneath his chin, and for a moment, he seemed to be searching for the right words.

Emma stepped toward him. “Is he awake?”

The doctor hesitated.

She knew something was wrong before he answered, but she refused to accept it. “What's happening? Why won't anyone tell me anything?”

“I'm very sorry.” He took a breath. “Your husband suffered severe injuries. We did everything we could, but he didn't survive.”

Emma stared at him.

The words reached her, but they made no sense. She looked past the doctor at the closed doors, waiting for another person to appear and explain that he'd made a mistake. Daniel would come out, angry about the confusion, and complain that she'd worried herself over nothing.

“He was talking to me this morning,” she said.

The doctor remained silent.

“He called me at eight. He was fine.”

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Carter.”

“He was supposed to come home tonight.”

“I know.”

Emma shook her head. “Then you need to go back in there.”

The doctor didn't argue. He simply stood beside her, offering the kind of sympathy she didn't want.

She returned to the plastic chair and sat with her hands clasped in her lap. She didn't cry. Not then. She couldn't find the tears, or perhaps some part of her still believed that if she refused to react, the words might somehow become untrue.

The hours that followed passed in fragments. Daniel's assistant arrived first, followed by James Miller, his lawyer. Her mother came later and cried as she held Emma's shoulders, speaking softly as though she were afraid her daughter might break if she said too much.

Emma heard very little.

The funeral was no clearer in her memory. She remembered the black clothes, the flowers, the handshakes and the people who told her Daniel had been a good man. She remembered nodding when she was expected to nod and thanking people whose names she barely recognized.

Twenty-nine days after his death, she still found herself listening for his key in the front door. A car would pull up outside, and she would look toward the entrance before remembering why she was alone.

That afternoon, she was sitting in the living room of the house they had shared when her phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Carter, this is James Miller.”

She recognized his voice immediately. James had been Daniel's personal lawyer for nearly six years.

“Hi, James.”

“I'm calling to arrange a meeting regarding Mr. Carter's will.”

Emma closed her eyes. “Can we do that another day? I don't think I can deal with it today.”

“I understand. However, I'd prefer that you come to my office tomorrow morning.”

“Why? Is there a problem?”

“The will contains a condition that concerns you directly.”

Emma sat up. “What kind of condition?”

“I'd rather explain it in person.”

“James, my husband has been dead for twenty-nine days. If there's something I need to know, you can tell me now.”

“I wish it were that simple.”

She looked toward the window. James was usually calm, even when delivering unpleasant news. She had seen him handle difficult business matters without so much as a change in his expression. Tonight, however, he sounded uneasy.

“Fine,” she said. “Tomorrow. Ten o'clock?”

“Ten o'clock. I'll see you then.”

She ended the call and set the phone beside her.

For several minutes, she sat without moving. Then she noticed something on the coffee table that hadn't been there the last time she'd looked.

Daniel's old leather notebook.

She picked it up. He had carried it everywhere, filling its pages with figures, names and notes about businesses she knew little about. He had never liked anyone looking through it, and Emma had never thought much of that habit. Daniel kept parts of his work to himself. She'd accepted it as one of those things about him that she didn't need to understand.

Now she wondered what else she'd accepted without asking questions.

She opened the notebook and flipped through several pages. Most contained numbers and brief notes she couldn't make sense of. Near the middle, a folded piece of paper slipped free and landed beside her foot.

Emma picked it up and unfolded it.

There was only one sentence.

If anything happens to me, make sure Emma never meets Sophie.

She read it twice, then turned the paper over. Nothing had been written on the other side.

“Sophie?” she whispered.

The name meant nothing to her. She searched her memory for a colleague, a business associate or someone Daniel might have mentioned in passing, but no one came to mind.

She looked at the notebook again, trying to remember when she'd last seen him carrying it. He'd had it with him the week before his accident. She was almost certain of that.

Her phone rang again.

James.

Emma answered before the second ring. “James, who is Sophie?”

Silence followed.

“James?”

“That's exactly what we need to discuss tomorrow,” he said carefully.

“Is she someone Daniel knew?”

“Yes.”

“How well did he know her?”

James didn't answer.

Emma stood, still holding the note. “I need you to stop doing that. Everyone keeps telling me what I need to know later. Daniel is gone, and I'm the one left trying to understand what happened. So please, just tell me who this woman is.”

“I understand how difficult this is.”

“No, you don't. Not unless you tell me what you're keeping from me.”

James was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was lower.

“Sophie is the reason you need to come to my office tomorrow.”

Emma looked at the sentence in her hand. Her husband had written those words for a reason. Whatever Sophie meant to him, Daniel had wanted to keep her away from Emma.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because Sophie is named in Daniel's will.”

Emma stopped pacing.

Then James added, “And so is her child.”

Emma barely slept.

She spent most of the night on the sofa with Daniel’s notebook beside her, opening it, closing it, then opening it again as if the words on that folded piece of paper might change if she looked at them enough times.

If anything happens to me, make sure Emma never meets Sophie.

The sentence was difficult to dismiss. Daniel might have been dealing with a business problem, or Sophie might have been an employee who had caused trouble. There were plenty of explanations, but Emma kept returning to the one she least wanted to consider.

Another woman.

By nine-thirty the next morning, she was sitting in James Miller’s office with her arms folded across her chest. James closed the door behind him and took the seat opposite her. He looked much as he had at the funeral: calm, professional, and almost impossible to read.

He placed a thick folder on the desk.

“Before we start, I want you to understand something,” Emma sa