They were calling about Avery’s absences on Wednesday and Friday the week before. Absences I hadn’t known about. Days I’d watched her leave the house, backpack on, Ryan driving her.
I stood there, phone pressed to my ear, barely hearing myself reassure the secretary I’d send a note.
As soon as the call ended, I grabbed my keys.
I followed them.
Ryan didn’t turn toward Target. He drove the opposite direction, and my heart started pounding so hard it hurt. I stayed several cars back, barely breathing, until he pulled into a familiar parking lot.
The hospital.
I parked a few rows away and watched as they got out. They didn’t go inside right away. They stopped at the flower shop near the entrance. Avery came out holding a bouquet—white lilies and yellow roses—before they walked inside together.
My hands were shaking as I followed.
They took the elevator. I took the stairs. On the third floor, I watched from around the corner as they stopped outside room 312. A nurse smiled and let them in.
I waited. Ten minutes. Maybe more.
When they came out, Avery’s eyes were red and swollen. Ryan wrapped an arm around her, whispering something I couldn’t hear.
I ducked into a supply closet until they passed.
Then I walked to the door of room 312 and reached for the handle.
A nurse stopped me. “Are you family?”
“I… yes. I mean—my daughter was just in there.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I can’t let you in.”
I went home shaking.
That night, Ryan acted normal. Avery barely spoke. I didn’t confront them. I couldn’t. Not yet.
The following day, they went again. Another excuse. Another bouquet.
This time, I didn’t hesitate.
I followed them straight to the third floor, waited until they went inside, then opened the door myself.
They both froze when they saw me.
But I wasn’t looking at them.
I was staring at the man in the hospital bed.
My ex-husband.
David.
He looked nothing like the man who had walked out on us years ago. He was thin, pale, hooked up to tubes and machines. When he spoke my name, it sounded like it cost him everything.
Ryan explained in a rush. Stage four cancer. Weeks, maybe months left. David had shown up at his office begging to see Avery. Avery had begged Ryan not to tell me because she was afraid I’d say no.
I wanted to scream. To throw something. To drag my daughter out of that room and never look back.
But then Avery turned to me, tears streaming down her face. “I know he hurt you. I know what he did. But he’s still my dad. And he’s dying.”
I walked out.
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