It all began with a phone call that shattered my world. What followed wasn’t grief, but a twisted game revealing the truth about love and the lies I’d been living.
Thirty years later, I still remember that day. Trevor was my everything—or so I thought. At twenty, I was recklessly in love with a man who could make me feel adored one moment and abandoned the next.
That morning, after one of our usual fights, he left with a cocky smirk, saying, “Don’t miss me too much.” By afternoon, I’d forgotten the argument—until my phone rang.
“Miss? This is Officer Bradley. Trevor’s been in a fatal accident. Please come identify him.”
I barely processed the words as I rushed to the morgue, heart racing. There, I saw Trevor’s lifeless body—or so I thought. When I woke up in the hospital, Trevor was alive, holding a ring.
“It was a test,” he said. “I needed to know if you loved me. Will you marry me?”
I was speechless, but my mind was already reeling. Was this love? Or something darker?
Later, Dr. Lucas, the young doctor who had treated me, asked, “Did you ever test his love?” The question struck me. Why was it always me proving myself?
As I processed everything, I decided it was my turn. When Trevor returned, I faked a stroke caused by stress. His panic and retreat confirmed what I’d feared: it wasn’t love.
A year later, Dr. Lucas and I sent Trevor an invitation—not to our wedding, but to a psychiatric evaluation. Six months later, we married. Now, three decades, three kids, and one grandchild later, I know love isn’t a test. It’s a choice, and we choose each other every day.
Lucas smiles, “Still think love’s a test?”
I laugh, holding his hand. “Only if you’re failing it.”