“I’m going to answer this. Eat. Don’t make this harder than it already is,” he hissed. “I’ll be back.”
I heard his voice through the crack in the door. “It’s me, baby. Oh, okay. I’m coming. Don’t cry.”
And he never came back to me.
I let him be. I was done.
I finally called my lawyer.
“It’s me. Lauren Valeria. I want to file for divorce.”
The lawyer’s voice on the other end of the line was steady but hesitant. “Mrs. Valeria, I just need to ask again, are you absolutely sure you want to proceed with filing for divorce? You do remember the prenup you signed with Mr. Valeria. It says you can’t legally divorce unless… well… unless one of you is dead.”
I pressed the phone harder to my ear, staring at the cold hospital floor. “Don’t worry,” I whispered. “I’ll be dead in a few days anyway. So just… finalize it.”
Before he could argue, I hung up. The silence that followed buzzed like static in my ears.
I started pulling the tape off the IV in my arm when my phone lit up on the side table. Another message. I didn’t even have to look to know what it was — it always came at the same time, like clockwork.