When my husband, Javier Morales, placed the divorce papers on the tray beside my hospital bed in the ICU, he didn’t shout.
He didn’t need to. The steady beeping of machines and the sharp scent of antiseptic made every word sound final. I was paralyzed from the waist down, my torso locked in a rigid brace after the car crash he had caused—eyes on his phone instead of the road. Without meeting my gaze, Javier slid the documents toward me and said flatly, “Sign. I wanted a flawless wife, not someone confined to a wheelchair.”
I signed at once. No tears. No pleading. A faint smile crossed his face, satisfied by how easily it had gone. As he turned to leave, he added, “You’ll cover the hospital expenses.”
“All right,” I replied.
