The Day He Asked For Divorce Was The Day I Was Dying Chapter 02

I closed the file and headed for the stairwell. I waited until their footsteps faded before going back to oncology department.

The doctor clipped my scans to the lightbox and pointed to the dark areas.

“It’s not looking good. Surgery isn’t really an option at this point. Chemotherapy could gain you

some time, but the side effects will be severe. You’re already weak, so we need to be careful.”

She paused. “Your husband is a doctor too?”

I nodded.

She sighed. “Then you really should tell him. At this stage, you can’t carry this alone.”

I stared at the gray shadows on the scan. I remembered the year when Sam finished his residency.

He had taken me on a tour of the hospital. He was wearing his white coat, his eyes full of light.

“The thing I’m most afraid of isn’t not being able to save someone. It’s realizing too late that I

could have done something sooner, if only I’d known.”

Fate had a cruel sense of humor.

I took my test results, refused admission, and filled only a prescription for painkillers.

I left the hospital, where it had started to rain.

Instead of going home, I went to the garden center on the edge of town.

I stood outside for a long time. In the end, I bought only a small pot of white camellias.

The owner asked, “Are these a gift? Lovely choice. They symbolize devoted love.”

I said, “They’re for me.”

The owner paused, then wrapped the pot carefully.

When I got home, workers were already in the backyard, taking down the rose trellis. Broken

branches lay on the ground, petals pressed into the mud.

Sam came out of the house, holding a work order.

“You’re back. Good, the back fence has been a mess for too long, so I’m having it all cleared out

today.”

“Juliette might come stay for a few days next week. She’s allergic.”

i stared at the roses.

Ten years ago, when we moved in, the yard had been bare.

I had mentioned that I liked roses, and Sam had driven out to a nursery to pick out the best plants.

He spent weekends digging holes by the fence, his hands scratched and bleeding from the thorns

The first year, there weren’t many blooms. He took a picture and sent it to me.

[Don’t worry. Give it time, and they’ll cover the whole wall.]

And they had. Every May, the neighbors walking by would stop to admire them. Sam would lean

against the doorframe, trying not to look too proud. “My wife takes good care of them.”

“Does it have to be today?”

Sam looked away. His voice was still measured. “Grace, don’t make a big deal out of some flowers.

Juliette’s condition is finally stable. She can’t handle any stress.”

“What exactly is her condition?”

His jaw tightened. “Depression with anxiety. Her husband died in an accident last year, and her family was pressuring her to move out. I’m the only one who can help her right now.”

I nodded slightly.

Everyone had their own pain, I supposed. Juliette hadn’t done anything wrong. She had simply

reached for the hand Sam had offered.

But my own hands had been stretched out for so long, and no one had noticed.

I walked over and picked up a broken stem that still had a flower bud. A thorn sank into my

fingertip, and a bead of blood welled up.

Sam saw it and, on instinct, he reached for my hand, but I pulled it behind my back.

“Don’t dirty the floor of your new place.”

His expression shifted. “You looked at my computer?”

I didn’t deny it.

Rain drummed on the awning, a steady, heavy beat.

Sam stood in front of me, something cold in his eyes, but also a flicker of discomfort.

“That was just a note file. It wasn’t for you to read, the wording might have been a little strong. But I

was just worried you might do something drastic.”

“Grace, divorce isn’t the end of the world. You don’t need to go to extremes.

I almost laughed. “Is that really who I am to you now, Sam?”

He was quiet for a moment. “You haven’t been yourself lately. You never used to be like this.”

No. I never had. I used to reheat his dinner when he worked late, pick out gifts for his mentor, and

file his mother’s medical reports by date.

When Juliette first came back into his life, he said she was an old friend going through a hard time.

He said she needed someone to lean on. I had believed him.

But there was a thin line between trust and willful blindness.

That night, Sam started packing up my clothes. “Don’t misunderstand. I’m just getting organized. You can take these with you, or donate them.”

He folded my cream-colored cashmere sweater neatly, the one he had bought with his first year’s bonus. It wasn’t cheap, and I had saved it for special occasions.

Now it was going into a trash bag.

The pain in my stomach hit hard, and cold sweat broke out on my forehead.

Sam finally noticed. He stopped what he was doing and frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“Stomach upset,” I said.

“Cut back on the coffee. I’ll have someone prescribe you something tomorrow.”

“Will you take a look at me?”

The words came out before I could stop them. It was an old reflex. Whenever I felt unwell, my first

instinct was still to go to him.

Sam glanced at his phone. A message from Juliette lit up the screen.

He sealed the trash bag. “Something came up with Juliette. I need to go. There are antacids in the

drawer.”

The door closed, and I lay down slowly.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was the doctor.

“Ms. Holloway, your follow-up blood work came back, and it’s very concerning. I strongly recommend you check in to the hospital, no later than three days from now.”