“We divorced two months ago.”
His expression didn’t change.
“Has she ever told you about her panic disorder?”
I stared at him.
“Her what?”
That was the moment my entire understanding of the past few years began to collapse.
Sophie had been receiving treatment for severe anxiety long before our divorce.
She suffered panic attacks.
Long periods of insomnia.
Episodes where she struggled to leave the apartment.
After our miscarriages, the symptoms became significantly worse.
Several physicians had prescribed medications at different times.
Eventually, according to the doctor, Sophie began using some of them incorrectly.
Not because she was trying to get high.
Not because she was reckless.
Because she was desperate to sleep.
Desperate to stop shaking.
Desperate to experience one quiet hour inside her own mind.
Stress, exhaustion, dehydration, and medication misuse had finally overwhelmed her body.
“She was fortunate someone found her quickly,” Dr. Ramirez said.
I barely heard the rest.
One sentence kept repeating inside my head.
Panic disorder.
My wife had lived beside me for years with panic disorder.
And I hadn’t known.
When I returned to Sophie’s room, she was staring at the television without watching it.
I sat down.
“How long?”
Her body stiffened.
She knew exactly what I meant.
“Ethan—”
“How long have you been dealing with this?”
She looked at her hands.
“A few years.”
“A few years?”
My voice rose before I could stop it.
“You were having panic attacks for years?”
“Please don’t be angry.”
“I’m not angry.”
But I was.
Not at her.
At myself.
At the doctors I’d never known existed.
At every night I had slept beside a woman in pain while convincing myself her silence meant she didn’t love me anymore.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Sophie laughed once.
It was a painful sound.
“Because I knew exactly how it would sound.”
“What?”
“That I couldn’t handle life.”
I shook my head.
“I wouldn’t have thought that.”
She finally looked at me.
“Are you sure?”
The question landed harder than I expected.
Because the truth was, during the last year of our marriage, I had accused her of being negative.
Distant.
Impossible to reach.
I had told her I was tired of walking on eggshells.
