Two months after I signed the papers to end our marriage, I found myself standing in a sterile hospital corridor

almost laughed because it was true, and because she remembered, and because the world had become unbearable in the space of five seconds.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

Even as I said it, I knew it was the wrong question.

Her wrist was bruised from needles.

Her skin was pale.

The answer was already sitting between us.

Emma looked down at her hands.

“I continue reading …