Two months after our divorce, I never imagined I would see her again — especially not in a place that reeked of disinfectant and quiet sorrow, where every second dragged and every face carried its own silent suffering. Yet there she was, sitting alone in a hospital hallway in northern California, wrapped in a thin, pale gown, her hands folded neatly in her lap as though she were trying to disappear into herself.
For a heartbeat, I honestly believed I was hallucinating. The woman in front of me barely resembled the one I used to call my wife — the woman who used to hum while cooking and fall asleep on the couch with a book resting on her chest. But when she looked up and our eyes met, the truth hit me so hard it stole my breath.
It was her.
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