Chapter 4 - The Reason We Lost Them
Sophie’s temperature was 103.4 when we reached St. Vincent.
Within seconds, the emergency room became controlled chaos.
Nurses moved around her.
Blood cultures.
IV antibiotics.
Monitors.
Questions.
I stood against the wall because there was nowhere else for me to stand.
A nurse asked whether I was her husband.
I hesitated.
“No.”
The word felt wrong.
“Ex-husband.”
She nodded without reaction.
“Do you know her medical history?”
“Yes.”
Then I realized I didn’t.
Not anymore.
I knew she hated cilantro.
I knew she slept with one foot outside the blanket.
I knew she couldn’t watch animal rescue commercials without crying.
But I didn’t know what medications she took.
I didn’t know when her last scan had been.
I didn’t know what genetic test she had mentioned.
I didn’t know what had happened to her body during the months when I was too busy convincing myself separation was healthy.
“I need Dr. Chen.”
I told the nurse.
“She’s being contacted.”
Sophie was admitted with neutropenic fever.
Dr. Chen explained that chemotherapy had weakened her immune system.
An infection that would barely slow down someone else could become dangerous for Sophie.
I hated how quickly my world filled with new terminology.
Neutrophils.
White blood cells.
Cultures.
Counts.
Risk.
Everything had numbers.
None of them gave me control.
Sophie woke six hours later.
I was sitting beside her bed.
Her eyes moved slowly toward me.
“You called an ambulance.”
“Yes.”
“I told you not to.”
“Yes.”
“You never listen.”
“That might be the first unfair thing you’ve said to me in years.”
She stared.
Then a faint smile appeared.
“You’re still annoying.”
“Good.”
“Why good?”
“Because if you’re insulting me, you’re awake.”
She closed her eyes.
I reached for the water.
“Want some?”
She nodded.
I helped her drink.
Then she noticed my hand.
There was dried blood across my knuckles.
“What happened?”
“Your glass broke.”
“You cut yourself?”
“I’m fine.”
She gave me the look.
The Sophie look.
I almost laughed.
“Seriously.”
I said.
“It’s nothing.”
“You should clean it.”
“You have cancer and you’re worried about my hand.”
“You always were dramatic.”
I stared at her.
“You passed out.”
“Minor detail.”
I leaned back.
For a few minutes, the room felt almost normal.
Then I remembered.
“The miscarriages.”
Her expression changed.
“Sophie.”
“Not now.”
“You said the doctors found a reason.”
“I’m tired.”
“Then sleep.”
I hated myself for the next sentence.
“But when you wake up, we’re talking about it.”
Her eyes opened.
“You don’t get to give me orders.”
“You’re right.”
I softened my voice.
“I’m asking.”
She watched me.
Then nodded.
Dr. Chen arrived around noon.
The infection appeared manageable.
Sophie would stay at least another night.
When the doctor finished discussing antibiotics, I asked,
“Can we talk about the genetic results?”
Sophie turned toward me sharply.
Dr. Chen paused.
“Has Sophie given permission?”
I looked at her.
She stared at the blanket.
Then nodded.
“Yes.”
Dr. Chen pulled a chair closer.
“The testing we performed was primarily related to Sophie’s lymphoma.”
My heart beat faster.
“But during the process, we identified something that could have implications for pregnancy.”
Sophie’s hand tightened around the blanket.
“What?”
I asked.
Dr. Chen looked at Sophie.
“Do you want to explain?”
She shook her head.
The doctor continued.
“Sophie carries a balanced chromosomal translocation.”
I frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“In simple terms, parts of two chromosomes have exchanged places.”
“Is that causing the cancer?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“For Sophie herself, the arrangement does not necessarily cause health problems.”
Dr. Chen paused.
“But during reproduction, it can increase the risk that an embryo receives an unbalanced chromosome pattern.”
I felt cold.
“Miscarriage.”
“Yes.”
The word hung there.
“Both babies?”
“We can’t prove it.”
Dr. Chen was careful.
“But it provides a plausible explanation for recurrent pregnancy loss.”
I looked at Sophie.
She was crying silently.
Exactly the way she had cried in the car after the first miscarriage.
“Why didn’t anyone find this before?”
“Testing after recurrent miscarriages is not always done immediately, and different physicians approach it differently.”
I barely heard the rest.
The question Sophie had asked.
Did I do something wrong?
The nights she blamed herself.
The way she looked at her body like it had betrayed us.
There had been a biological reason.
Not punishment.
Not failure.
Not anything she could have controlled.
I moved closer.
“Sophie.”
She shook her head.
“Don’t.”
“This wasn’t your fault.”
Her eyes flashed.
“I know.”
“But do you?”
She stared at me.
Then her face crumpled.
“I spent three years thinking my body killed our babies.”
I reached for her hand.
This time, she let me take it.
“And now I find out it was my body.”
“No.”
“It was.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“How?”
“Because you didn’t choose it.”
She pulled her hand away.
“That doesn’t make me feel better.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
She turned toward the window.
“You get to hear this and feel relieved because now there’s an explanation.”
Her voice broke.
“I hear it and think maybe there was never a version of our life where I could give you the family you wanted.”
I stared at her.
“What family did I want?”
She laughed bitterly.
“Children.”
“I wanted you.”
She looked at me.
I repeated it.
“I wanted you.”
Her expression froze.
“I wanted children with you.”
My voice shook.
“That is not the same thing as wanting children instead of you.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“You left.”
There it was.
The truth neither diagnosis nor apology could erase.
“You still left.”
I looked down.
“Yes.”
Dr. Chen quietly stood.
“I’ll give you some privacy.”
The door closed.
Sophie wiped her face.
“I can’t do this.”
“Do what?”
“Rebuild history because I’m sick.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No.”
I took a breath.
“I am asking for a chance to stop being the man I was.”
She looked at me.
“That man is still you.”
“I know.”
Her eyes narrowed.
That answer disarmed her again.
“I can’t erase him.”
I continued.
“I can only decide what he does next.”
Silence.
Sophie looked exhausted.
“Then what are you doing next?”
I knew the answer immediately.
“Staying.”
She closed her eyes.
“That’s not enough.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying that.”
“I know.”
Her eyes opened.
I almost smiled.
She almost did too.
That afternoon, Sophie’s mother called.
Margaret Lane lived outside Phoenix.
She had offered to fly in.
Sophie refused.
I asked why.
“My mom has rheumatoid arthritis.”
“She can still sit beside you.”
“She’ll try to take care of me.”
“That’s what mothers do.”
“She’ll hurt herself.”
“So you’d rather hurt yourself.”
Sophie glared.
“Don’t psychoanalyze me.”
“I don’t have the qualifications.”
“Clearly.”
Her sarcasm was returning.
I loved it.
I didn’t say that.
By evening, her fever dropped.
I went downstairs for coffee.
When I returned, a man stood outside Sophie’s room.
Late thirties.
Tall.
Unshaven.
Dark jacket.
He was staring through the glass.
“Can I help you?”
He turned.
His eyes moved over my uniform.
I had gone home briefly to shower and report to command.
“You Ethan?”
My shoulders tightened.
“Who are you?”
The man gave a humorless smile.
“Luke Lane.”
Sophie’s younger brother.
I had met him exactly twice.
Sophie had barely spoken about him during our marriage.
They had been estranged for years.
“What are you doing here?”
“My mother called.”
“Sophie said she didn’t want anyone.”
“She says that about everybody.”
He looked through the glass again.
Then at me.
“Apparently you’re the exception.”
“I wouldn’t assume that.”
Luke’s expression hardened.
“I’m not.”
There was something about his tone I didn’t like.
“What does that mean?”
He stepped closer.
“You really don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?”
“Why Sophie stopped talking to me.”
I frowned.
“This isn’t about you.”
“No.”
Luke looked through the window.
“It’s about you.”
Every muscle in my body tightened.
“What are you talking about?”
He laughed once.
“She never told you.”
“Told me what?”
Luke shook his head.
“Of course she didn’t.”
My patience disappeared.
“Luke.”
He met my eyes.
“The second miscarriage.”
My heartbeat changed.
“What about it?”
“She called me that night.”
I stared.
“I thought you two weren’t speaking.”
“We weren’t.”
“Then why call you?”
“Because she was scared.”
The answer hurt.
“She said you were downstairs.”
I remembered.
I had been in the kitchen.
I had spent three hours cleaning things that didn’t need cleaning.
“What did she say?”
Luke looked at me with something close to pity.
“She said she thought you blamed her.”
My stomach dropped.
“I never blamed her.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Because she knew too.”
I frowned.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
Luke’s face became serious.
“She wasn’t afraid you blamed her.”
He paused.
“She was afraid you were starting to hate yourself.”
I said nothing.
Luke continued.
“She knew exactly what was happening to you.”
His voice softened.
“And she made me promise not to tell you she called.”
I stared through the glass at Sophie.
She had been drowning.
And even then, she had been trying to save me.
Luke turned away.
Before he left, he stopped.
“There’s something else.”
I looked at him.
He reached into his jacket and handed me a folded envelope.
My name was written across the front.
ETHAN.
The handwriting was Sophie’s.
“What is this?”
“She gave it to me before her first chemotherapy treatment.”
My fingers tightened around the envelope.
“What did she say?”
Luke’s expression changed.
“She said if the treatment didn’t work, I was supposed to give it to you.”
The hallway disappeared.
I looked down at the envelope.
May you like
Sophie had written me a goodbye letter.
And she had prepared for the possibility that I would receive it only after she was dead.
