My husband did not bother with introductions, because the silence already explained everything I desperately wished was untrue.
He dropped a folder onto my bed without hesitation, the papers sliding across the blanket until they collided with the tubing of my intravenous line. His expression remained cold, detached, disturbingly indifferent to the reality that I had nearly died delivering his children only hours earlier.
“Sign the divorce documents,” he said, his voice flat, mechanical, utterly devoid of emotion. “I refuse to continue living like this. You are not the woman I married anymore.”
My throat tightened painfully as disbelief struggled against humiliation and rising panic.
“Connor, I just delivered three premature babies,” I whispered, my voice trembling despite every effort to remain composed. “They are still fighting to survive downstairs.”
He responded with a short, dismissive laugh that echoed cruelly within the room.
“Exactly my point,” he replied, his gaze sweeping over my weakened body with visible disgust. “Three infants, endless medical bills, and a wife who barely resembles herself.”