The surgery had gone well.
They had removed the tumor.
There were no immediate complications.
Sophie was in recovery.
Linda began to cry openly then. I stood very still, afraid that if I moved, I might collapse.
Dr. Shah continued explaining next steps, pathology, monitoring, medication, recovery. I heard it all through a haze of relief so fierce it almost hurt.
Sophie was alive.
She was alive.
When we were finally allowed to see her, she was groggy and pale, surrounded by soft machine sounds. Linda went in first.
I waited outside the room, staring at the floor.
After several minutes, Linda opened the door.
“She’s asking for you.”
Inside, Sophie’s eyes fluttered open when I approached.
“Hey,” I whispered.
Her lips moved.
I leaned closer.
“What?”
“Detective name,” she murmured.
I frowned, confused.
Then I realized.
She was referring to the book.
I let out a shaky laugh that turned dangerously close to a sob.
“I still can’t pronounce it.”
A faint smile touched her mouth.
“Thought so.”
I sat beside her and took her hand only after she moved her fingers toward mine.
“You did great,” I whispered.
She drifted in and out of sleep.
Each time she woke, she seemed surprised to find me there.
Each time, I said the same thing.
“I’m here.”
Two days after surgery, I went to Sophie’s apartment to pick up a few more things.
The city felt different that day. Brighter, though the sky was overcast. I parked outside her building and sat for a moment before going in.
The envelope was still in the drawer.
Ethan.
My name looked like a memory in Sophie’s handwriting.
I sat on the edge of her bed and opened it carefully.
The letter was four pages long.
At first, the words blurred because my hands were shaking.
Then I forced myself to read.
Ethan,
I don’t know how to say this out loud, so I’m writing it down.
The doctors found something after the miscarriage. I am trying not to panic before I know everything, but I’m scared. I’m scared in a way I don’t know how to carry.
I wanted to tell you last night. I watched you come home so tired, and I lost my courage. Not because I don’t trust you, but because I can feel how far away we are from each other. I don’t know how to ask you to come closer when you already look like you’re trying not to run.
I miss us.
I miss the way you used to reach for me in your sleep. I miss laughing over stupid things. I miss believing that sadness was something we would survive together.
I know you are hurting too. I know you lost them too. I need you to know I never blamed you for grieving differently. I only blamed the silence.
There’s something else.
When the doctor called with the first test results, he said some hormone levels were unusual. He said it may be related to the tumor or the miscarriage, and he needs to run more tests. I don’t understand all of it yet. Part of me is afraid to hope for anything. Part of me is afraid not to.
If this is bad, I don’t want you to stay because you feel trapped. But I also don’t want to disappear from your life because we were both too wounded to speak.
So I’m asking one thing.
Come with me to the appointment next Thursday.
Not as a perfect husband.
Not as someone who knows what to say.
Just as you.
Please.
Sophie
By the time I finished reading, I was crying so hard I could barely see the page.
Next Thursday.
I remembered that Thursday.
