“Are you crying because he’s leaving?”
He wiped his cheek.
“He’s my best friend, Chelsea. I thought you knew.”
Ben and I had been married for eleven years.
All those years, I had shared him with the hospital.
He was a wonderful surgeon, and I had always been proud that the man I loved helped people survive the most difficult moments of their lives.
But over the past year, I had started preparing his dinner before I even had time to sit down for my own.
He missed Thanksgiving, our anniversary, and our daughter Olive’s eighth birthday.
Sometimes he didn’t come home at all.
“We’re short-staffed, honey. Don’t wait for me.”
When he finally went to bed, he looked so exhausted that I swallowed every complaint I had been carrying inside.
One night, I woke up and saw him sitting on the edge of the bed. His shoulders were shaking.
