For a few seconds, I couldn’t move.
The hallway around us seemed to stretch impossibly long. Nurses moved past with medication carts. A man coughed behind a half-closed door. Somewhere nearby, a machine released a steady, patient beep.
But all I could see was the date printed on the first page.
It was from six weeks before our divorce was finalized.
Six weeks before I signed my name beneath the words that ended our marriage.
Six weeks before I told myself Sophie and I had already lost everything worth fighting for.
My hands felt numb as I bent down and picked up the file. The papers shifted in my grip, covered in medical terms I didn’t immediately understand. But a few words stood out clearly enough to make the floor seem to tilt beneath me.
Further evaluation required.
