The medical staff rushed into the private room, lifting my weakened body onto a stretcher and rushing me to Metropolitan Central Hospital.
The nurse, holding the surgical consent form, quietly asked for my emergency contact. "I don't have any family. I'll sign it myself," I said calmly.
Holding the pen in my only hand, I signed my name stroke by stroke—clean and decisive.
After years of marriage, when it came to life and death, I was still completely alone.
The surgery went smoothly. When I came to, I was lying in a quiet, private ward.
My phone lay silent for a long time before the screen finally lit up with a single text from William Smith:
William: I have clinic duty today and can't leave. Rest well, and call the nurse if you need anything.
A moment later, a nurse came in carryin
