"Ah," he said, barely paying attention. As usual, he wasn't really listening.
And for the first time, I didn't get mad or make a fuss. I just started drafting my formal severance of allegiance on my phone. The language was careful, clinical. In this world, you didn't simply leave. You documented your departure in terms that couldn't be mistaken for betrayal, even when betrayal was exactly what it was.
When he reached for his water glass, likely expecting the chamomile I used to prepare for him every night, he paused, noticing it wasn't there.
Finally, he spared me a glance.
"I showed your CT scan to a specialist. He said it was just a minor injury, nothing serious. Just keep the wound dry."
"Alright," I said without looking up, still typing.
This afternoon, I'd had eight stitches in my leg from the wreck. Worse still, I had just found out I was four weeks pregnant and already showing signs of miscarriage.
The doctor had apologized, saying that if I had been brought to the hospital sooner, the baby might have been saved.