"Ms. Spencer, no matter what happened, no matter what you've endured, we hope you stay strong."
"We may never fully understand your pain, but remember, God didn’t take you because you deserve better. You need to face the hurt, not give up your life..."
The doctors and nurses lined up, giving me gentle hugs one after another.
Each warm embrace sent a faint spark of life into my numb heart.
If, at my breaking point, Lucas had given me even a single hug, I wouldn’t have ended up like this...
When we were dating, he did everything for me, treating me like a princess.
He was the one who vowed at our wedding that he would be my lifelong support:
"Adriana, I will cherish you forever. You only need to be yourself—leave everything else to me." The vow remains, but the man who made it has already changed.
During my entire hospitalization, Lucas never showed up.
No calls, no messages.
Only the monitor’s steady beeping kept me company.
I spent most of the time with my eyes closed, as if sleeping could turn everything into a forgotten dream.
But I was awakened by voices in the corridor.
"Women are all the same, yet their lives are so different."
"That woman yesterday—heard she just had a small blister on her heel, and her husband was terrified, even feeding her water himself."
Another lowered her voice:
"It’s true, comparison hurts. I thought my husband was good, but compared to hers, he's nothing. I really envy his wife..."
Images flickered in my mind—my mother’s tearful gaze, my father’s falling silhouette, the doctor apologizing for the miscarriage.
And then, the scene of Lucas holding Lydia Young, eyes red, saying, "With me, you’ll never need to be independent."
My chest filled with a cold, suffocating stillness.
Even tears refused to fall.
If they knew I was Lucas’s wife, would they still envy her?
The attending physician came to check on me, and seeing I still wouldn’t open my eyes, quietly shook his head.
He sighed to the nurse:
"Notify psychiatry to intervene."
This time, I didn’t reject counseling, nor did I refuse medication.
For three years after our marriage, Lucas had insisted we start trying for a baby, but perhaps because of the stress, I couldn’t get pregnant.
Even after being diagnosed with depression, and the doctor firmly telling me to take medication and wait until I recovered, I stubbornly fought against the emotions swallowing me.
Back then, I believed that if I just got pregnant, I could salvage the marriage that had suddenly fallen apart.
But after I broke down, struggled to heal myself, and tried everything to conceive, the child quietly slipped away.
As if even the child knew this crumbling marriage was no longer worth clinging to.
After taking antidepressants, the crushing weight inside me eased.
I stopped hiding in sleep and called a law firm:
"Help me draft a divorce agreement." On the day I was discharged, I took the signed agreement and proactively contacted Lucas.
Maybe because I hadn’t clung to him for half a month, he actually answered my video call right away.
Behind him were the floor-to-ceiling windows of a luxury hotel, the river view glowing outside.
He wore a bathrobe, droplets still sliding from his hair.
Seeing the hospital behind me, he lifted a brow, his voice dripping with disdain:
"Really committing to this act, aren’t you? Aren’t you afraid of catching all sorts of germs?"
