The side effects of the treatments had ravaged me—days spent clinging to the cold porcelain of our bathroom, my stomach twisting violently as I vomited over and over. Tristan would pat my back absentmindedly, his comforting words slowly fading as the weeks dragged on. Now, looking back, it all seemed grotesquely futile.
"Oh, by the way, Mrs. Anders, isn't your husband picking you up today? He must be overjoyed," a nurse said brightly, her tone full of genuine delight.
I froze, forcing a weak smile to my lips as I lowered my gaze. My fingers curled tightly into my palms, the nails biting into my skin until the color drained from my hands. "He's busy with work today," I murmured. "I can manage on my own."
The nurse nodded sympathetically, but her comment lingered in the air like a taunt. Tristan had been there for every treatment at the start. His presence had been reassuring, his hand steadying me through every injection. The staff had adored him, calling him a "model husband." But somewhere along the way, his visits became sporadic. Then they stopped altogether.
I glanced down at my phone, at the curt message he'd sent earlier: [Team-building event tonight. I'll be home late.]