Not with anger exactly.
With exhaustion.
“I didn’t let you do anything,” she said. “You chose to leave.”
The words struck with quiet precision.
I had no defense against them.
Because she was right.
I had chosen.
I had told myself I was ending our suffering. I had told myself that some damage couldn’t be repaired. I had told myself divorce would be cleaner than living in a house filled with grief.
But standing in that hospital hallway, holding medical papers that proved Sophie had been battling something far worse than I imagined, every excuse I’d used to survive the past two months collapsed.
Dr. Keller cleared his throat softly.
“Sophie needs to return to her room,” he said. “She had a procedure this morning. She shouldn’t be standing this long.”
“What kind of procedure?” I asked.
Sophie’s gaze dropped again.
Dr. Keller looked at her, waiting for permission.
After
