Chapter 6

The guest room had been mostly cleared out.

The hallway floor was covered in scattered belongings.

The pillowcase my mother had sewn for me. The old bedding she'd used when she stayed. The nebulizer I'd bought. And the worn canvas tote full of her CT films.

One of the movers stepped right on it. A black boot print pressed into the fabric.

Ethan was in the living room directing everything.

"Move that therapy bed in there. Put it by the window."

He saw me and spoke as if nothing had happened.

"Good timing. Mrs. Hayes needs a quiet environment to recover after her tests. Sophie can't manage on her own, so I'm letting them use the guest room for a few days."

I looked at the canvas tote on the floor.

Inside were my mother's handwritten symptom notes. And a hospital receipt from when I was a child, running a fever. She'd carried me through the dark to the town clinic that night. She'd kept that receipt all these years.

"Those are my mother's things."

Ethan glanced at them.

"Stop carting all this old paperwork around. It's easy to lose. The guest room's been sanitized. Be considerate when Mrs. Hayes moves in."

Sophie's voice came from the other end of the apartment.

"Ethan, I really can't thank you enough. Giving up your only free room and letting my mom stay here — she would have been so frightened otherwise."

His tone softened.

"Don't mention it. Just let her focus on getting better."

My phone rang.

A nurse from the hospital admissions department.

"Is this the family of Dr. Ethan Smith? The cardiothoracic bed you'd been waiting for — Dr. Smith signed the transfer today. It's been reassigned to another patient. You'll need to re-queue."

I didn't respond. I ended the call.

I crouched down and picked up the canvas tote. I brushed off the boot print and folded the scattered papers back inside one by one.

Then I went to the study and pulled open the drawer.

The divorce agreement. I'd printed it out a long time ago.

I laid it on his desk.

I pulled the ring off my left hand and set it on top of the papers.

I took the house key off my keychain and tucked it into the canvas tote.

I picked up my bag and walked out the door.

No argument. No goodbye.

Downstairs, I sent my mother a message.

Mom, pack your things. I'm taking you to New York. Early train tomorrow morning.

She replied almost immediately:

Is Ethan coming too? I don't want to take him away from work.

I stood outside in the cold wind. It slipped under my collar.

I looked up once at the window of the apartment I'd lived in for five years. Warm light. Voices. Laughter.

I typed back:

No.

He won't be part of this anymore.

On the train, my mother hugged the old canvas tote to her chest. She sat curled against the window and didn't touch her water.

"Does Ethan know?"

"Mom, stop worrying about him."

I pressed the cup into her hands.

"I've got everything arranged with the specialist in New York. We go straight to admissions when we arrive."

She didn't respond. She just looked down and ran her thumb over the black boot print on the canvas.

Four hours later. New York Cancer Center.

Admission paperwork. Blood work. Pre-surgical assessment.

No hassle. No queue. No night spent shivering in a corridor.

When I paid, I swiped my credit card. The balance hit zero. Somehow I felt steadier than I had in weeks.

At eight o'clock that evening, my mother fell asleep in her hospital bed.

I was sitting on the bench in the corridor when my phone started going off.

Ethan.

I picked up.

"Where the hell have you been?!"

He didn't even take a breath before he started.

"Mrs. Hayes is about to be discharged and move in. Why haven't you made the bed in the guest room? There's nothing fresh in the refrigerator. What have you been doing all day?!"