One year after my divorce, I ran into my ex-husband in the pediatric wing of the hospital where I worked. He proudly introduced the one-year-old son he had with my former best friend, expecting me to fall apart in front of everyone. Instead, I smiled and quietly said, Really? Five minutes later, my attorney stepped off the elevator—and the sound of a baby bottle hitting the floor was the first crack in the life they thought they had stolen from me.
A year since Rhett Mallory walked out.
And there he was in the middle of the paediatric corridor at Thornhill like a man who had bought the flooring, one hand on a changing bag and the other on a buggy, wearing the smile he gets when he thinks he has won something.
Next to him: Yvie.
My best friend of eleven years. The one who used to sit in my kitchen and tell me he would come round.
She was holding a bottle and her hands were not steady, and she was fussing with a blanket over a little boy with pale hair who was trying to get hold of a stuffed giraffe.
I had my coat on. The badge says Dr P. Sandell**. I had a tablet full of clinic letters under my arm and a meeting in twelve minutes and absolutely no intention of stopping.**
