Two months after my divorce, I found my ex-wife sitting by herself in a hospital corridor. And the moment I recognized her, something inside me shattered.
Her voice was so faint I had to lean closer. “I didn’t want you to find out like this.”
Maya kept looking at the floor, her fingers motionless inside mine, cold and fragile.
“I was diagnosed three months ago,” she whispered.
Three months. Before the divorce. Before I asked her to leave.
“With what?”
“Leukemia.”
For a moment, the hospital corridor disappeared.
Everything vanished except that one word.
I stared at her, waiting for her to tell me it was a mistake. But Maya just sat there in the faded gown, with her short hair, pale face, and eyes too tired for a woman who had once filled our small kitchen with songs while making tea.
“When? How?
Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I tried.”
I remembered those weeks before the divorce. Maya standing in the kitchen doorway: “Arjun, can we talk?” Me glancing at my laptop: “Not now, I have a deadline.” Maya sitting beside me at night, her hands folded tightly. Me pretending to be asleep.
Maya calling me during work. Me rejecting the call because I was in a meeting that did not matter.
“The week before I asked for the divorce,” she said. “I fainted at the market.
They ran tests. Then more tests.”
“And you knew before the divorce?”
She nodded.
I covered my face.
“Why didn’t you scream at me?” I whispered. “Why didn’t you tell me right then?”
She looked down at her lap.
“Because when you said divorce, I saw relief in your face.”
Her words were not angry. That made them worse.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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