We signed the papers in the morning — fifty years of marriage reduced to signatures and silence. The lawyer, trying to be kind, suggested we grab a coffee to mark the end of things. We went out of habit, not sentiment. When the waiter came, Charles ordered for me, like always.
And just like that, something inside me snapped.
“This is exactly why I can’t do this anymore,” I said, louder than I meant. I stood up, walked out into the blinding sunlight, and didn’t look back.
That evening, my phone buzzed again and again. I let it ring. When it finally stopped, I felt relief — cold and final. But the next call wasn’t from him. It was our lawyer. His voice was quiet.
“It’s not about the divorce,” he said. “Charles collapsed after you left. A stroke. He’s in the ICU.”
I was out the door before he finished the sentence.
Hospitals always smell the same — bleach, fear, and something metallic. I found him in a bed that looked too big for him, machines pulsing beside him like artificial lungs. His daughter, Priya, stood by his side, eyes red and exhausted. “I didn’t know who else to call,” she whispered.
