The next few days were a blur of phone calls and emails. I reached out to the hospital billing office, requesting detailed records of all recent visits and procedures. A kind woman on the other end took my information and promised to send copies by the end of the week. “It’s a lot of paperwork,” she warned, “but we’ll sort this out.” Her reassurance did little to ease my growing anxiety.
In the evenings, after my spouse had gone to bed, I spread out the documents across the kitchen table, underlining discrepancies and highlighting charges that seemed out of place. My notebook filled with dates and figures, a growing map of confusion.
One night, as I was comparing statements, my phone buzzed with a new email. It was from the billing department. Attached were digital copies of the forms I had requested. I opened them, scrolling through pages of itemized charges and consent forms. Everything appeared in order until I noticed a new section—a record of calls made to the hospital on our behalf.
There it was, my spouse’s name, listed as the caller. But the dates didn’t match up with what I remembered. I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms. Something wasn’t adding up, and I needed answers.
The following morning, over breakfast, I broached the subject gently. “I spoke with the hospital yesterday,” I said, watching their reaction. “They mentioned you called them a few times about our accounts.”
My spouse looked up, a flicker of surprise in their eyes, quickly masked with a smile. “Oh, that must have been when I was trying to sort things out,” they replied, casually sipping their coffee. I nodded, pretending to accept the explanation, but inside, doubts were growing.
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