Two months after my divorce, I spotted my ex-wife sitting alone in a hospital hallway, and the instant I knew it was her, something inside me broke.
The corridor smelled of antiseptic, stale coffee, and the faint plastic odor of hospital blankets.
Cold air poured from the ceiling vents in steady currents, though half the people waiting had sweaters wrapped around them or arms folded tight.
Somewhere behind the nurses’ desk, a monitor beeped with a calmness that felt almost cruel.
I had not come there for her.
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