She tried to speak, but the sound came out hoarse and broken. “What… what is that?” Mark slid the papers onto the small table attached to her bed, the pages rustling loudly in the silence. “Divorce papers,” he replied, as casually as if he were handing her a grocery list. “Everything’s filled out. You just need to sign. It’s better this way.” She stared at him, searching his face for a hint of concern, guilt, or hesitation. Her eyes burned as tears welled up. “Is this some kind of joke?” she whispered. Mark sighed, irritation flickering across his features.

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be. I told you before—I can’t live like this anymore. You’re always sick, always tired. I feel like I’m married to a patient, not a wife. I deserve more. I deserve happiness.” His words landed like blows, each one stripping away a layer of illusion she had clung to for years. A faint, bitter smile tugged at her lips. “So you waited until I couldn’t even stand up… until I could barely speak… to do this?” Mark hesitated for a fraction of a second, then straightened his shoulders. “It’s practical. You’re here, the timing works.