I pulled it out. A new email notification.
From: Mark
Subject: Divorce Papers - Final Draft
Maureen, the papers are ready. Attached below.
And then, another ping.
From: Immigration Office
Subject: Visa Application Approved
I stared at the screen. The tears that had been threatening to fall all night suddenly dried up.
“It might take a little longer for your body to recover, Mrs. Miller.”
Dr. Evans’ voice was gentle, professional, but the words hung heavy in the sterile white room. I sat on the examination table, the paper crinkling beneath me.
“The miscarriage was traumatic,” she continued, glancing at my chart. “Your hormone levels are still stabilizing. Stress is a major factor. You need to give yourself time before trying again.”
I let my shoulders slump, burying my face in my hands. I forced a sob to shudder through my chest. It wasn't hard. The grief for my baby was real, a constant ache in my bones, even if the performance for my husband was calculated.
“Oh, Maureen,” Brandon cooed instantly. “It’s okay, baby,” he whispered, kissing the top of my head. “Don’t cry. We have time. We have all the time in the world.”