Two months after divorcing my wife, I found her sitting alone in a hospital hallway wearing a patient gown

the room with something delicate.

Not forgiveness.

Not reconciliation.

But a beginning.

“Can I come tomorrow?” I asked.

She looked away.

I waited.

The old Ethan would have filled the silence with pleading. Explanations. Promises. Anything to make himself feel less helpless.

This time, I stayed quiet.

Finally, Sophie said, “I can’t stop you from visiting a public hospital.”

That wasn’t a yes.

But it wasn’t a no.

So the next morning, I came back.

And the morning after that.

At first, Sophie barely spoke to me.

I sat in the chair near the wall, leaving enough distance that she wouldn’t feel crowded. Sometimes she slept. Sometimes she watched the silent television without really seeing it. Sometimes nurses came in and adjusted tubes or checked her temperature, and I