I nodded. She didn’t beg, didn’t plead. She simply packed her things and left with a kind of calm that broke me far more than tears ever could. Our divorce papers were signed within two weeks.
After that, I convinced myself I’d done the right thing. I rented a small place in Seattle, worked during the day, watched movies at night. No warm lights waiting for me, no familiar footsteps, no soft voice asking if I had eaten. But pride made me pretend I felt nothing.
Two months passed. I lived automatically. Some nights, I woke calling her name.
Then one day, at St. Vincent Hospital, where I was visiting a friend recovering from surgery—I saw her.
Sitting alone in a long corridor.
“Lena?” I whispered.
She lifted her head. Her eyes, once full of gentle warmth, now looked hollow.
“Evan?”
“What happened to you? Why are you here?”
She avoided my eyes. “Just a check‑up.”
But when I held her cold hand, she broke.
“I… I have early‑stage ovarian ᴄᴀɴᴄ:ᴇʀ,” she murmured. “Treatment is possible, but… I don’t have insurance. Or anyone to help me. I left everything behind after the divorce.”
It felt like a blade sinking into my chest.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”