I went to the hospital alone again.
Four days in a row now. Four evenings pulling into the Manhattan General parking garage, riding the elevator to the cardiac wing, sitting beside my father's bed while machines beeped and his chest rose and fell in shallow rhythm. Four nights of texting Dalton updates he read but didn't answer.
The nurses knew me by name now. They didn't ask about my husband anymore.
I parked on level three and checked my phone. Nothing from Dalton. I'd sent him a message two hours ago: *Dad's oxygen levels dropped. Doctor wants to talk to us.* The read receipt showed up immediately. No reply followed.
I grabbed my purse and got out. The garage was dim and cold, the kind of fluorescent half-light that made everything look like a stage set. My footsteps echoed. I was halfway to the elevator when I heard voices.
Low. Familiar.
I stopped.
Dalton's car was parked near the stairwell exit. I recognized the black Audi before I recognized him. He was standing beside a silver sedan I didn't know, his back to me, one hand braced on the roof. A woman stood in front of him. Her hand was flat against his chest. His other hand rested on her waist.
Natalia.
I couldn't move.
She was talking, her voice soft and urgent. I caught fragments. "...Kaysen's school... they're saying he needs an evaluation... I don't know what to do, Dalton, I can't handle this alone..."
Dalton leaned in closer. His voice dropped to a register I had never heard him use with me. Warm. Steady. Intimate.
"Hey. It's okay. I'll call the principal tomorrow. We'll figure it out. You're not alone."
She tilted her head up. Her fingers curled into his shirt.
"You always know what to say."
He smiled. The kind of smile I used to wait for. The kind I stopped expecting three years ago.
My chest went tight. My hands went numb. I stood there in the middle of the parking garage with my father three floors above me, dying, and watched my husband comfort another woman with a tenderness he had never once offered me.
I don't know how long I stood there. Long enough for the cold to settle into my bones. Long enough for the elevator doors to open and close somewhere behind me. Long enough to understand that this wasn't new. This was just the first time I'd seen it.
I stepped forward.
"Dalton."
My voice came out flat. Quiet. It didn't sound like mine.
He jerked back. His hand dropped from Natalia's waist. She turned, startled, her expression shifting in a fraction of a second from soft to surprised to something I couldn't name.
"Emryn." Dalton blinked. "What are you—"
"I'm here for my father," I said. "Where are you?"
He glanced at Natalia, then back at me. His jaw tightened. "I was just—Natalia needed help with something. It's not—"
"I texted you two hours ago."
"I know. I was going to come up. I just—" He gestured vaguely at Natalia. "She called. It was urgent."
Natalia stepped forward, her voice gentle. Apologetic. "Emryn, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to keep him. I know you're going through a hard time. I just—Kaysen's school situation is really stressful, and Dalton's always been so good with these things..."
She trailed off. Her hand was still on Dalton's arm.
I looked at my husband. He looked back at me with the same expression he always wore when I asked for too much. Patient. Tired. Faintly annoyed.
"Your father-in-law is in cardiac critical care," I said. "The doctor asked if you'd been notified of his prognosis."
Dalton's face shifted. "Is he—"
"He's dying, Dalton."
Silence.
Natalia's hand slipped off his arm. She stepped back, her eyes wide. "Oh my God. Emryn, I had no idea. I'm so sorry. Dalton, you should go—"
"I will." He turned to her, his voice softening again. "Are you okay to drive?"
She nodded. "I'm fine. Go. Be with your wife."
He walked her to the driver's side. Opened the door for her. Waited until she got in. Closed it gently. Watched her pull out of the space and disappear down the ramp.
Then he turned to me.
"Let's go up," he said.
I didn't move.
"Emryn."
"I want a divorce."
The words came out before I knew I was going to say them. They hung in the cold air between us.
Dalton stared at me. "What?"
"I want a divorce," I said again.
He laughed. Short. Disbelieving. "You're exhausted. You're not thinking straight. Let's go see your dad, and we can talk about this later—"
"I'm thinking clearly for the first time in five years."
He stepped toward me. I stepped back.
"Emryn, you're upset. I get it. But you're overreacting. Natalia needed help. That's it. There's nothing—"
"Go home, Dalton."
"I'm not going home. I'm coming up with you."
"No," I said. "You're not."
I turned and walked toward the elevator. My legs felt like someone else's. My hands shook when I pressed the button.
Behind me, Dalton called my name. I didn't turn around.
The elevator doors opened. I stepped inside. I watched him standing in the middle of the garage, his mouth open, his hands spread like he was trying to explain something I could no longer hear.
The doors closed.
I rode up alone.
When I got to my father's room, I sat beside his bed and held his hand. It was cold. The monitors beeped. A nurse came in, checked the IV, and left without speaking.
I pulled out my phone.
There was a business card tucked into the pocket of my purse. Ryan Stevens, Attorney at Law. My father's cardiologist had given it to me two weeks ago with a quiet, careful look that said more than his words.
I stared at the number.
Then I stepped into the hallway and made the call.
He answered on the second ring.
"This is Ryan Stevens."
"Mr. Stevens," I said. "My name is Emryn Shaw. Dr. Patel gave me your card. I need to ask you about... legal options."
There was a pause. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. Steadier.
"Mrs. Shaw. How are you holding up?"
I didn't expect the question. I didn't expect the way it cracked something open in my chest.
"I don't know," I said.
He didn't rush to fill the silence. He just waited.
"My father is in cardiac critical care," I said. "And I just told my husband I want a divorce in a parking garage."
"I'm sorry," Ryan said. "About your father. And about the rest of it."
I closed my eyes.
"Dr. Patel mentioned you might need help with specialist access," he said. "I know someone at Mount Sinai. If you'd like, I can make a call."
I opened my eyes. "Why would you do that?"
"Because your father helped my sister when no one else would," Ryan said quietly. "And because you shouldn't have to do this alone."
I stood in the hallway with the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead and my father dying three doors down and my marriage disintegrating in a parking garage three floors below.
"Thank you," I whispered.
"I'll call you tomorrow," Ryan said. "Get some rest, Mrs. Shaw."
He hung up.
I went back into my father's room. I sat beside his bed. I held his hand.
And for the first time in five years, I let myself cry.
