“A tumor,” I repeated, because it was the only thing I could say.
Dr. Keller’s expression softened. “It was discovered during follow-up testing after the pregnancy loss. At first, we needed more imaging to understand what we were dealing with.”
I stared at Sophie.
“You knew before the divorce?”
She flinched.
That was my answer.
A cold, hollow ache opened in my chest.
“You knew,” I said again, quieter this time.
Sophie lowered her eyes.
“I found out around the time you asked me for the divorce.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “No, that doesn’t make sense. Why didn’t youtell me?”
Her lips parted, but no words came.
I turned to Dr. Keller, desperate for someone to say there had been a misunderstanding. That the dates were wrong. That this file belonged to someone else. That my wife—my ex-wife—had not been carrying this alone while I was busy convincing myself that leaving her was a kindness.
But the doctor didn’t rescue me from the truth.
“Sophie asked that her medical information remain private,” he said carefully. “That was her right.”
I looked back at her.
“Private from me?”
Her eyes filled with tears, but she didn’t let them fall.
“We were already breaking, Ethan.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I had.”
My voice came out sharper than I intended. “You were sick, Sophie. You were scared. You were going through this, and you let me walk away?”
Her face changed then.
Not with anger exactly.
Withexhaustion.
“I didn’t let you do anything,” she said. “You chose to leave.”
The words struck with quiet precision.
I had no defense against them.
Because she was right.
I had chosen.
I had told myself I was ending our suffering. I had told myself that some damage couldn’t be repaired. I had told myself divorce would be cleaner than living in a house filled with grief.
But standing in that hospital hallway, holding medical papers that proved Sophie had been battling something far worse than I imagined, every excuse I’d used to survive the past two months collapsed.
