The woman sniffed. “Single mothers… such a shame.”
Daniel stepped beside Megan and draped his arm casually along the back of her chair.
“Good evening,” he said calmly. “Daniel Brooks.”
The woman faltered and left.
“You didn’t have to,” Megan whispered.
“Yes, I did.”
Something shifted that night. When Daniel suggested coffee on Tuesday, Megan said yes. The girls celebrated like diplomats closing a deal.
At the café near the hospital, conversation flowed—until Megan grew quiet.
“Daniel… your wife. Hannah. She passed from heart failure, right?”
He stiffened. “Yes. How do you know?”
Megan’s hands trembled. “I was on that shift.”
The words hollowed the air.
“I’m a nurse,” she continued softly. “I was there that night. We did everything we could. I saw you in the hallway. I heard you begging.” Her voice broke. “I thought if you recognized me, you’d hate me.”
Daniel felt the old pain surge, raw and blinding.
“It wasn’t your fault,” he said automatically—but grief isn’t logical.
“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to lose this before it started,” she whispered. “Too many people leave.”
He stood abruptly. “I need air.”