Room 212 sat at the far end of internal medicine. For three weeks, that number had lived in my mind like a curse. Two twelve. That was where the woman named Vanessa Reed, twenty nine years old, was staying.
Twenty nine.
She had not even been born when I first met Daniel.
Back when I ironed his shirts, stitched loose buttons on his sleeves, and worked endless double shifts so he could afford the courses that helped him build his financial company.
Before opening the door, I took a deep breath. I wanted to walk in with dignity. I wanted to ask only one question.
Was destroying a family worth it?
But what I saw stole the air from my lungs.
Warm afternoon sunlight poured through the window. Daniel, my husband, the man who had kissed my cheek that same morning and told me he had client meetings all day, sat on the edge of Vanessa’s hospital bed.
He was feeding her applesauce.
Slowly.
Tenderly.
She was pale and fragile, her hair tied back, her skin nearly translucent against the white sheets.
But it wasn’t only the feeding that shattered me.
It was the gentleness.
The way he wiped the corner of her mouth with a napkin.
The way he leaned close to whisper something that made her smile.