Two months after our divorce, I believed the hardest chapter of my life was over. The papers were signed, possessions divided, and I tried to rebuild a life of quiet routines and simple comforts. Maya had taken her grandmother’s mirror, the honeymoon coffee table, and treasured dishes, leaving the house to echo with my solitude. Friends reassured me I was better off, and I told myself I was healing—jogging again, cooking for one, pretending the silence wasn’t heavy. But everything I thought I knew shattered that October afternoon at St. Mary’s Hospital. There she was, my ex-wife, frail in a pale yellow gown, looking nothing like the sharp, untouchable woman I had divorced.
Continues…
