After The Divorce: Ex-husband's Regret

2

Sunlight spilled across the kitchen counter in lazy stripes, catching on water droplets, turning them briefly into something almost beautiful. Ava stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up, fingers pruned from the dishwasher, moving on instinct to the dishwasher. Plates. Cups. The quiet aftermath of breakfast.

The house still smelled like them. Coffee and pancakes. Matthew ’s cologne lingered faintly in the air, stubborn, like it refused to leave because he had.

She reached for another plate, stacking it carefully.

Her mind drifted back to the way he’d kissed her goodbye. Slow and familiar. Like he had nowhere else to be.

I’ll be home early.

She smiled at the memory, shaking her head at herself. Always believing him. Always choosing to.

The apartment was too quiet now. No footsteps, no humming from the bedroom. Just the soft sound of water running and her own breathing.

Then—

Her phone rang.

The sound cut through the apartment sharply, too loud for a late morning that still smelled like coffee and buttered pancakes. She froze, sponge hovering midair, her first thought ridiculous and fleeting.

Matthew forgot something.

Then the phone rang again.

Her heart tripped. Once and hard.

“I’m coming,” she called, already drying her hands on her jeans as she hurried into the sitting room. She grabbed the phone without checking the screen.

“Hello?”

There was a pause, a breath that wasn’t hers.

“Is this Mrs. Taylor ?”

“Yes.” Her voice sounded steady, even to her own ears. “This is Ava.”

“This is St. Vincent’s Hospital. Your husband has been involved in an accident.”

The world tilted.

“I—” The word didn’t finish forming. Her fingers tightened around the phone. “What kind of accident?”

Another pause. Too long and careful.

“Ma’am, you need to come immediately.”

Her vision narrowed. The room felt suddenly too small, the walls inching closer, breathing down her neck.

She didn’t remember dropping the phone. Only that it hit the floor with a dull sound that felt far away. She stood there for a second—maybe longer—staring at nothing, her chest refusing to pull in air.

No. No, no, no.

Her legs moved before her thoughts caught up. Keys, shoes, her bag. She slammed the door behind her so hard the walls rattled.

The drive was a blur. Red lights she didn’t remember stopping at. Horns she didn’t hear. Her hands shook on the steering wheel, knuckles white, her mind looping the same image over and over—Matthew smiling that morning, kissing her forehead, saying Always when she told him to drive safe.

Always.

“I’m coming,” she safelypered to the empty car. “I’m here. I’m coming.”

Her throat burned. Tears came and went, blurring the road, but she wiped them away angrily. She couldn’t fall apart. Not now, not ever.

She didn’t know how she got there. Only that suddenly the hospital loomed in front of her, cold and gray, and she was running.

The automatic doors slid open, and Ava stumbled inside, breathless, wild-eyed.

“Where is my husband?” she shouted, her voice cracking the moment it left her mouth. “Where is Matthew Taylor?”

People turned. Nurses rushed forward.

“Ma’am, please—”

“My husband was in an accident!” she cried. “Where is he? Let me see him!”

Hands touched her arms, gentle but firm. Someone guided her to a chair she didn’t sit in. Her knees gave out, and she sank anyway.

“Please,” she said, her voice breaking apart now. “Please let me see him. That’s my husband.”

“He’s being attended to,” a nurse said calmly. “You need to breathe. You need to calm down.”

“I am breathing,” Ava snapped, even as her chest stuttered, uneven. “I just need to see him.”

Minutes blurred into something shapeless. Time stretched thin, then snapped.

She paced, sat and stood again.

Her phone buzzed once in her hand. Clara’s name flashed on the screen. She couldn’t answer it. Couldn’t explain. Couldn’t say the words out loud and make them real.

She pressed her palms together, nails digging into skin, whispering prayers she hadn’t spoken in years.

Please. Take anything. Just don’t take him.

An hour later—maybe more—voices rose near the entrance.

Matthew ’s parents.

His mother’s heels clicked sharply against the floor as she approached, her face tight, eyes scanning Ava like she was already looking for someone to blame.

“What happened?” she demanded. “Why weren’t we informed sooner?”

Ava stood, swaying slightly. “They called me first. I—he—”

“Where is he?” his father interrupted.

“Still inside,” Ava said. “They’re treating him.”

His mother folded her arms. “How bad is it?”

Ava opened her mouth. Closed it. “They haven’t said.”

The doctor came out then. A man with tired eyes and a clipboard held too tightly in his hands.

“Mr. Taylor is stable,” he said. “He suffered a head injury and some internal bruising. He needs rest. We’ll monitor him closely.”

Ava exhaled for the first time in what felt like hours. Her hands trembled as she pressed them together.

“Can we see him?” she asked.

“Yes. Briefly.”

The room was white and quiet. Machines hummed softly, indifferent.

Matthew lay on the bed, pale against the sheets, a bandage wrapped around his head. Tubes ran where they shouldn’t have had to run. His chest rose and fell steadily, and Ava latched onto that movement like it was the only thing holding her upright.

She moved closer, careful, reverent. Sat beside him.

“Oh, Matthew,” she whispered, reaching for his hand. It was warm. Thank God, it was warm.

His parents stood back, murmuring to the doctor. Ava barely heard them.

Hours passed. Or maybe minutes. She lost track.

She watched his face like it might disappear if she looked away. Counted each breath. Memorized the curve of his mouth, the faint scar on his brow she used to kiss without thinking.

Then Matthew coughed.

Her head snapped up. “Matthew ?”

He shifted, brow furrowing, another rough cough tearing from his chest.

“I’m here,” she said quickly, standing. “I’m right here.”

His eyes fluttered open.

Brown and familiar.

Relief flooded her so fast it made her dizzy.

“Babe?” she breathed, tears spilling freely now. “Are you okay? Do you need water?”

She reached for the cup, hands shaking.

Matthew looked at her.

His eyes narrowed slightly, confusion knitting his brow. He swallowed, his throat working.

“Do…” His voice was hoarse. Broken. “Do I know you?”

The cup slipped from Ava’s hand and shattered on the floor.

The sound echoed.

And something inside her went completely, terrifyingly silent.