A nurse stepped out of the room before he could answer.
She looked from James to me.
“Are you his wife?”
“Yes.”
Her expression softened.
“Then maybe I should explain this part.”
I waited.
“When Anna’s condition worsened, we asked if there was anyone she wanted us to contact.”
My throat tightened.
“She wasn’t fully conscious by then,” the nurse continued. “But she kept repeating one name.”
She looked toward James.
“His.”
I turned toward my husband.
He lowered his eyes.
“She kept saying it,” the nurse said. “Over and over.”
Eleven years.
Anna had married someone else.
Built another life.
Been abandoned inside that life.
And when she was dying, one old name apparently remained buried deeply enough for her to reach.
My first reaction wasn’t jealousy.
It was heartbreak.
I imagined a terrified woman dying in a hospital room while her newborn daughter lay somewhere nearby.
No husband.
No mother.
No family gathered in the hallway.
Just one name she could still remember.
“How did you find James?”
“She managed part of his last name,” the nurse explained. “Social services later found an old emergency contact in previous records containing his full information.”
James nodded.
“They called me about an hour before I called you.”
“You came immediately.”
“Yes.”
“Did you see her?”
His eyes filled again.
“No. She was already gone.”
Behind the glass, the baby made a tiny sound.
All three of us turned.
