I thought the worst day of my life was when my husband Alden died suddenly at 42. The doctors said it was a heart attack. I planned the funeral, buried the casket, and tried to start grieving.
Then yesterday, his phone rang.
It was a credit card alert – a charge for a hotel room, made just minutes before. My hands shook as I grabbed my keys and raced to the address. On the way, his phone rang again. The caller ID showed “Marlon – Work.” But Marlon was his boss… wasn’t he?
At the hotel, the clerk told me Alden was in room 403. My legs nearly gave out climbing those stairs. When I knocked, a teenage housekeeper cracked the door. “You here for him too?” she whispered. “I saw him leave hours ago. He looked very much alive.”
The room held proof – takeout containers, a duffel bag, and a photo of my husband on the nightstand. The girl said he’d been here before with a blonde woman. Then I checked his phone and found his last search: “What happens if you fake your death?”
Police found him three days later at another hotel with a coworker I vaguely remembered. The life insurance scam was elaborate – forged death certificates, secret accounts. In court, he claimed he just “wanted to start over.”
The betrayal cut deeper than any grief. But now I know – sometimes what breaks you also sets you free.
