Two months after divorcing my wife, I found her sitting alone in a hospital hallway wearing a patient gown

a long moment, she gave the smallest nod.

“A biopsy,” he said. “And additional imaging. We’re monitoring a few complications, but she’s stable.”

Stable.

That word should have comforted me. Instead, it felt terrifyingly thin.

“Is it cancer?” I asked.

Sophie closed her eyes.

Dr. Keller didn’t answer right away, and that pause told me enough.

“We don’t have final pathology yet,” he said. “Some findings are concerning. We’re waiting on results.”

I felt as if someone had reached into my chest and gripped my heart.

I turned back to Sophie.

“How long have you been coming here alone?”

She swallowed.

“Since January.”

January.

Months.

Not weeks.

Months.

I thought of all the evenings I’d stayed late at the office. All the texts from her that I answered with one-word replies. All the nights she sat across from me at dinner, quieter than usual, while I assumed she was simply