Two Weeks Ago, My Wife Went To Visit Our Daughter And Son-In-Law. I Decided To Surprise Them And Went Too. Just As I Reached Their Front Door, Their Neighbor Hurried Toward Me And Shouted, “Wait, I Have To Tell You Something…” Within Five Minutes, The Whole Situation Turned Into Something I Never EXPECTED.

I don’t think I made a sound. I couldn’t. My lungs had turned to stone.

This wasn’t a dream. I was not in my bed in Atlanta. I was here, and my wife was broken on our daughter’s floor.

Her hand was outstretched, palm up, fingers slightly curled. I saw the simple gold wedding band I’d placed on her finger forty-five years ago. It was still gleaming.

“Evelyn,” I whispered. The voice that came out of me wasn’t mine. It was dry and cracking, like an old leaf scraping the pavement.

This wasn’t just a fall. Evelyn was clumsy sometimes, sure. She might trip. But she wouldn’t smash a lamp. She wouldn’t overturn a chair. This was violence. This was rage.

The female officer was suddenly kneeling beside her, fingers pressing into Evelyn’s neck.

“I’ve got a pulse!” she yelled. “It’s faint, but she’s breathing. Get a bus rolling, now!”

Breathing.

The word was a hammer blow. The stone in my chest cracked. I surged forward, my knees hitting the hard tile floor, the impact jarring my old bones.

“Evie. Evie, baby, I’m here.” I reached for her hand—the one with the ring.

“Sir, don’t touch her,” the officer commanded. “Paramedics are on the way. We can’t move her.”

I knelt there, helpless, just two feet away from the love of my life. I stared at the blood matting her beautiful gray hair. I stared at the unnatural angle of her head.

Who? Who could do this? Who could do this to her?

Evelyn was the kindest soul I’d ever known. She baked for the neighbors. She volunteered at the library. She wouldn’t hurt a fly.

My eyes, stinging with tears I refused to let fall, scanned the room again—the broken lamp, the overturned chair—and then traveled up the staircase.

I hadn’t seen her.

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