“What kind of something?”
“A tumor.”
The word landed with a weight I wasn’t ready for.
I heard it, understood it, and still my mind refused to accept it.
“A tumor,” I repeated, because it was the only thing I could say.
Dr. Keller’s expression softened. “It was discovered during follow-up testing after the pregnancy loss. At first, we needed more imaging to understand what we were dealing with.”
I stared at Sophie.
“You knew before the divorce?”
She flinched.
That was my answer.
A cold, hollow ache opened in my chest.
“You knew,” I said again, quieter this time.
Sophie lowered her eyes.
“I found out around the time you asked me for the divorce.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “No, that doesn’t make sense. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Her lips parted, but no words came.
I turned to Dr. Keller, desperate for someone to say there had been a misunderstanding. That the dates were wrong. That this file belonged to someone else. That my wife—my ex-wife—had not been carrying this alone while I was busy convincing myself that leaving her was a kindness.
