“When you’re discharged,” he said, “don’t come home.”
“What?”
“I want a divorce.” His voice cracked on the last word. “I can’t believe you did this to me.”
Then he walked out.
I looked at Diane. She had held my hand through every disappointing doctor’s appointment for six years. She had brought me soup when I couldn’t get out of bed. She had knitted the yellow blanket that was sitting in my hospital bag at that very moment.
I begged her with my eyes. Say something. Tell me this is a joke. Tell me he’s in shock. Tell me anything.
She didn’t say a word.
She just picked up her purse, turned around, and followed her son out the door.
The nurse put the towel down very gently, like she was afraid of making noise.
“Honey,” she said quietly. “Do you want me to call someone?”
