Ryan turned the opposite direction.
Ten minutes later, he pulled into the hospital parking lot.
My chest tightened.
I watched as they stopped at the flower shop near the entrance. Avery chose white lilies and yellow roses. Then they went inside.
I waited, then followed.
Third floor. Room 312.
I didn’t go in that day. I watched from a distance as they left—Avery’s eyes red, Ryan holding her close.
I went home confused, furious, terrified.
⸻
The following day, Ryan tried again.
“The library,” he said.
I followed them again.
This time, I didn’t hide.
I walked straight to room 312 and opened the door.
They both froze.
But I wasn’t looking at them.
I was looking at the man in the hospital bed.
My ex-husband.
David.
Thin. Pale. Connected to machines. A stranger wearing a familiar face.
Ryan spoke quietly. “Sheila… he’s dying.”
Stage four cancer.
He’d contacted Ryan weeks earlier. Begged to see Avery. She’d begged Ryan not to tell me—afraid I’d say no.
I wanted to scream.
I wanted to walk out.
Instead, I did both—just not at the same time.
⸻
That night, we finally talked.
Avery cried. Ryan apologized. I listened.
And then I realized something that hurt worse than betrayal:
This wasn’t about me.
It was about my daughter saying goodbye.
The next day, I baked a blueberry pie—David’s favorite—and went with them.
Not for him.
For her.
I didn’t forgive him. I still haven’t.
But I let my daughter have peace.
Some wounds don’t close.
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