he divorce papers slipped from my lap and landed on the hospital blanket.
For a moment, I simply stared at them.
Ten years of marriage reduced to a stack of legal documents.
No conversation.
No explanation.
No dignity.
Just signatures waiting to happen.
David stood at the foot of my hospital bed with his hands in his pockets.
“I think it’s best for both of us,” he said.
I looked up at him.
“While I’m in the hospital?”
His expression didn’t change.
“There’s never a good time.”
I wanted to cry.
Instead, I laughed.
A short, exhausted laugh that surprised both of us.
Because after everything we’d been through, his timing was so cruel it almost felt absurd.
“What about the house?” I asked quietly.
He shrugged.
“My lawyer says I’ll probably keep it.”
“The house I paid half for?”
“The court will decide.”
“And the car?”
“You don’t really need it anymore.”
The words hung in the air.
You don’t really need it anymore.
As if my illness had already made me irrelevant.
As if I were fading from the world and he had simply decided to move on before the process was complete.
Then he said something that revealed exactly what he believed.
“Honestly, I don’t know how you’re going to support yourself.”
I stared at him.
He actually believed I needed him.
The irony would have been funny if it hadn’t been so pathetic.
You see, David handled the bills.
He handled the mortgage.
He handled the visible finances.
