I had just been discharged from the hospital after giving birth. My body still felt hollowed out, every movement pulling at something tender and sore, and my newborn daughter slept against my chest with the fragile certainty of someone who believed the world would keep her safe. A nurse gently guided me into a wheelchair and smiled as she asked, almost casually, whether my husband was on his way to pick us up. I remember looking toward the glass doors of the hospital entrance, expecting to see Daniel’s familiar silhouette, his car idling nearby. Instead, there was nothing—only strangers coming and going, each one seemingly accompanied by someone who cared enough to show up. Ten minutes passed. Then my phone rang.

Daniel’s voice was sharp, impatient, already tired of the conversation before it began. He told me to take the bus home because he was busy. When I reminded him that I had just given birth and could barely stand, he sighed as if I were inconveniencing him on purpose. He explained, without shame, that the driver was taking his parents and sister out for hotpot because they were hungry. Before I could say another word, the call ended. Moments later, I watched his black Maybach glide past the hospital entrance. Through the tinted windows, his mother laughed, his sister held up her phone to record stories, and Daniel leaned back comfortably in his seat. None of them looked in my direction. It was as if I didn’t exist.