Two months after the ink dried on our divorce papers, I found myself walking the sterile, fluorescent-lit halls of the Semmelweis Clinic

she turned away when I spoke about the future, not because she didn’t want one, but because she feared she would not be in it.

“You didn’t have to carry this alone,” I choked out.

Maya leaned her head against the wall.

A single tear slid down her pale cheek.

“I didn’t want you to remember me as a patient,” she whispered. “I wanted you to remember me as continue reading …