“I’m glad.”
There was no bitterness in her voice. That somehow hurt more.
“I should have gone while we were married,” I said.
“We both should have.”
The admission sat between us, not as blame, but as truth.
Later that evening, Linda returned with soup. She placed it on Sophie’s tray and then turned to me.
“Can we talk outside?”
Sophie looked worried. “Mom—”
“It’s fine,” I said, standing.
Linda led me to a small family waiting area at the end of the hall. The room smelled faintly of coffee and disinfectant. A muted television played a cooking show no one was watching.
For a moment, Linda simply looked at me.
She had always been kind to me. Warm, even. She used to send me home with leftovers and call me son when Sophie and I visited for holidays.
Now her expression was guarded.
“She told me not to be angry with you,” Linda said.
I looked down.
“That sounds like Sophie.”
“It does.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I know that isn’t enough.”
“No,” Linda said. “It isn’t.”
I accepted that.
She sat in one of the chairs, and after a moment, I sat across from her.
“When Sophie lost the first baby,” Linda said, “she called me from the bathroom floor. You were asleep in the bedroom. She didn’t want to wake you because you had a presentation the next morning.”
My chest tightened.
“I didn’t know that.”
“I know.”
She folded her hands tightly in her lap.
“After the second loss, she said you both stopped speaking the same language. She said you looked at her like she was a room you couldn’t bear to enter.”
I closed my eyes.
“That’s what it felt like,” I admitted. “Not because I didn’t love her. Because I didn’t know how to walk into that room without falling apart.”
Linda’s face softened just slightly.
“Love that cannot enter pain becomes very lonely, Ethan.”
I opened my eyes.
There was no accusation in her voice now.
Only grief.
“I know,” I said.
“Do you love her?”
The question was simple.
The answer was not.
Because loving Sophie had never stopped.
It had only become tangled in fear, failure, resentment, helplessness, and shame.
“Yes,” I said.
Linda studied me.
“Then don’t confuse loving her with needing her to make you feel forgiven.”
I looked away.
“You are not the center of this,” she continued. “Her illness is not your redemption story. She needs steadiness. Not grand gestures. Not speeches. Not panic.”
“I understand.”
“I hope you do.”
She stood.
Then, after a long pause, she added, “She asked for you when they took her for the biopsy.”
I looked up sharply.
