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

not name.

When she finally looked up, recognition passed through her face.

Not joy.

Shame.

Deep, weary shame.

“Arjun?” she whispered.

Her voice barely rose above the ventilation system.

I knelt in front of her, the flowers hanging uselessly from my hand.

My fingers hovered near hers, terrified that if I touched her, she might shatter.

“Maya,” I said. “What continue reading …