I thought I’d found true love with my passionate Spanish husband. I didn’t understand his family’s conversations, but I loved the warmth of his culture. One night, my old roommate Patricia came to dinner and fluently chatted with his relatives, translating laughter for me. Everything felt perfect — until Patricia suddenly grabbed my arm and whispered urgently, “You need to talk to your husband right now.”
Confused, I asked why. She looked terrified and said his family had been talking about his first wife — the one he’d always told me had died. But she isn’t dead.
My world collapsed. I remembered how he sometimes seemed sad, and I’d assumed he missed her. In the kitchen, I confronted him. When I repeated Patricia’s words, his face went pale. He finally admitted the truth: his first wife wasn’t dead — she’d been in a coma, brain-dead, for ten years. His family told him to move on and said I was the perfect replacement.