“On the fourth floor.”
“Take me to her.”
The charity ward was crowded and dimmer than the private rehabilitation unit.
Curtains divided the room into narrow spaces. Machines beeped softly, and a television played somewhere at the far end.
Patricia lay in the bed nearest the window.
She appeared thinner than I remembered.
When she saw me, her eyes widened.
Her trembling hand reached toward mine.
“You came,” she whispered.
I hurried to her bedside and held her fingers.
“I’m sorry,” she said as tears gathered in her eyes. “I tried to tell you.”
“You don’t have to apologize.”
“He took my phone. I kept asking him to bring you. He told me you were too busy.”
My throat tightened.
“I was never too busy for you.”
“He said you didn’t want to see me like this.”
“That was a lie.”
Patricia turned her face toward the window, ashamed.
“They moved me here after he stopped paying. I thought you knew.”
“I didn’t.”
“I heard him talking to that woman. He said once the baby came, he would leave. He said you were useful because you had money and trusted him.”
The words hurt, but hearing them from Patricia also cleared something inside me.
For weeks, I had been questioning my instincts.
Now there was nothing left to question.
I leaned closer.
“Listen to me. You are not staying here because of what he did. I’m taking responsibility for your care.”
Her lips trembled.
“After everything he’s done to you, you would still help me?”
“You didn’t do this.”
“He’s my son.”
“And I am still your family.”
She closed her eyes as tears slipped into her hair.
For the first time that day, I cried too.
Not for Michael.
Not even for the marriage.
I cried for the two women who had loved him, trusted him, and been discarded when our devotion was no longer convenient.
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