Past the vending machines.
Past the reception desk with the little flag.
Past the elevator where a family stood holding balloons for someone upstairs.
Outside, the afternoon light was bright enough to make both of us squint.
My car was parked near the far edge of the lot.
The same dented sedan Emily used to joke had outlasted more than most marriages.
I opened the passenger door.
She looked at me.
“I can get a rideshare.”
“No,” I said gently. “You don’t have to.”
Her fingers tightened around the discharge folder.
“This doesn’t fix anything.”
“I know.”
“I’m not pretending April didn’t happen.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
She turned her gaze toward the hospital entrance.
People passed in and out through the sliding doors, carrying flowers, bags, coffee, fear.
“I don’t know what this is,” she said.
“Neither do I.”
It was the first honest answer I had given her in months.
She got into the car.
I drove her home.
Her apartment was small and far too tidy, the kind of tidy that comes from having no strength left to create clutter.
A stack of mail sat on the counter.
A half-empty water bottle rested beside the couch.
A blanket was folded with hospital-like precision over the armrest.
I placed the discharge papers on the kitchen table.
Then I made tea because I did not know what else to do, and tea had always been one of the things Emily made when the world felt too big.
She sat at the table and watched the steam rise.
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