The sterile scent of disinfectant filled the hospital room where Claire Mitchell lay weak and pale, still recovering from surgery after a devastating miscarriage.
Tubes and monitors surrounded her, their beeps echoing her broken spirit.
That was when her husband of six years, Michael, walked in—expression cold, a manila folder in hand.
“Claire,” he said flatly. “We need to settle this.”
Confused, she asked, “Settle what?”
He dropped the folder on her lap. The bold words at the top made her chest tighten: DIVORCE AGREEMENT.
“Michael… not now,” she whispered, tears threatening to spill.
“I can’t do this anymore,” he cut her off. “We’ve tried for years, and this—” he gestured at her frail body—“just proves it. We’re not meant to be parents. We’re not meant to be together.”
Her voice cracked. “You’re abandoning me here?”
His jaw tightened. “Sign it. I’ll take care of the rest.”
Exhausted, heartbroken, and too weak to fight, Claire signed. When she woke the next morning, Michael—and her wedding ring—were gone.
