I never thought I would see her that way again.
She was wearing a pale hospital gown, sitting quietly in the corner of the corridor with empty eyes fixed on nothing. She looked weak, exhausted, and almost invisible to the world around her.
For a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
It was Sophie.
My ex-wife.
The woman I had divorced only two months earlier.
My name is Ethan. I’m thirty-four years old, an ordinary office worker trying to survive an ordinary life.
Sophie and I had been married for five years.
To everyone else, our marriage looked peaceful and stable. Sophie was gentle, thoughtful, never someone who demanded attention. But somehow, she made every place feel like home. No matter how difficult my day had been, seeing her when I walked through the door used to quiet something inside me.
Like most married couples, we had dreams.
A house of our own.
Children.
A family built on warmth and safety.
But after three years of marriage and two devastating miscarriages, something between us slowly began to fade.
Sophie became quieter.
A sadness settled behind her eyes, deep and permanent, like exhaustion she could no longer hide.
And I changed too.
I started staying later at work. I avoided difficult conversations. I buried myself in deadlines and overtime because it felt easier than facing the silence growing inside our home.
Small arguments became routine.
Nothing explosive.
Nothing dramatic.
Just two exhausted people drifting farther apart without knowing how to stop it.
I cannot pretend I was innocent.
I wasn’t.
One evening in April, after another pointless argument that left us both emotionally drained, I finally said the words neither of us wanted to face.
“Sophie… maybe we should divorce.”
She stared at me for a long time.
Then she asked quietly:
“You decided before you even said it, didn’t you?”
I had no answer.
I only nodded.
She didn’t scream.
She didn’t cry.
Somehow, that hurt even more.
She simply lowered her eyes and began packing her things later that night.
The divorce moved quickly.
Too quickly.
Almost as if both of us had been preparing for it long before the papers were signed.
Afterward, I moved into a small apartment in Chicago and forced myself into a routine.
Work during the day.
Occasional drinks with coworkers.
Movies at night.
Silence everywhere else.
No warm dinners waiting at home.
No familiar footsteps in the morning.
No soft voice asking:
“Did you eat yet?”
Still, I kept telling myself I had made the right decision.
At least, that was the lie I repeated every day.
Two months passed like that.
I lived like a ghost.
Some nights, I woke up sweating after dreaming Sophie was calling my name.