Chapter 8
Michael found no solace in the dean’s attempt
to comfort him.
The emptiness inside him only deepened. When he got home, piano music drifted through the house. He paused in the entryway, listening as Noah practiced under Sabrina’s guidance. Their voices were light, filled with laughter, the warmth that once might have comforted him. Now, it only magnified the hollowness in his chest.
He went straight to the master bedroom, lying on the large bed that felt colder and lonelier than ever. The quiet pressed down on him, and his thoughts spiraled.
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How had it come to this?
Initially, letting Sabrina stay seemed harmless
a small gesture of kindness for an old
friend.
Even Eliza had agreed to it.
But over time, that decision had unraveled everything.
Arguments between him and Eliza became more frequent, their words sharper, and their patience thinner. They had been two people constantly at odds, wearing each other down until neither had the energy to fight anymore.
When had they stopped arguing altogether?
The answer came slowly.
It was after the night when Sabrina fell ill.
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She had been curled up in pain, and Michael
couldn’t ignore her–not with their shared history. He’d taken care of her, as anyone would for someone they cared about.
But it had driven a wedge between him and Eliza, deepening her suspicions and
resentment.
After that, she came home less and less.
When she did, it was like she wasn’t even there. Her visits were brief and impersonal, all about Noah. She wouldn’t waste a word or a glance at him, her husband.
And as her distance grew, his anger
simmered.
But anger wasn’t the worst of it.
Resentment was worse–the bitter realization
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that she had calculated her way into his life- meticulously studying his tastes, presenting herself as the perfect match. She had seemed so genuine, so perfect. Yet, once they were married, she had turned into a stranger.
She’d smile at Sabrina and could converse politely with her but with him? He was
invisible.
And still, he had tried. He had turned down a career–changing promotion, choosing to focus on their household. He learned what
foods she liked, tried to make their home inviting, and prepared meals he thought she’d love–hoping she might come home a little earlier. But no matter what he did, the pattern remained the same.
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Every meal went cold. Reheated. And cold again.
The seat next to him stayed empty.
And now, she wasn’t just emotionally absent. She was gone, truly gone.
His gaze shifted, landing on the bedside table where the divorce agreement sat. Her signature at the bottom caught his eye. It was neat, precise, and unapologetically bold.
Eliza’s handwriting had always been striking- delicate yet firm, with a quiet strength that
mirrored her.
He traced the letters with his fingertips, but the sharp pain in his chest only grew. It felt like every stroke of her pen had pierced his
heart.
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Years later, I walked out of an isolation ward, peeling off layers of protective gear.
After months of working in artificial light, the sunlight hit my face, almost too bright. Standing before me were the head of the WHO, my former colleagues, and my students.
Their faces were lined with relief, their eyes shining with tears. Tears of triumph.
After five long years of relentless work- facing death, infection, and unimaginable hardships–we had done it.
We’d developed an effective treatment that would save tens of thousands of lives across Africa and make a lasting impact on global
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epidemic prevention.
For a moment, every ounce of prejudice, discrimination, and skepticism we had endured melted away. It was eclipsed by the applause that thundered around me.
I stood at the center of the press conference, with reporters firing questions, international representatives offering their congratulations, and my colleagues and students cheering.
Then, a flash from a camera lit up the room, and everything stilled. My image appeared on the massive screen behind me.
The room fell silent.
There I was. A shadow of the woman I had
once been.
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The years had not been kind.
Though I was only fifty, I looked far older. My body was gaunt, my face hollow and lined. One arm was missing, lost to an infection during the mission. Half my face was scarred, a permanent reminder of the virus I had fought so hard against. Even standing there, every nerve in my body ached with pain. And yet, for a brief moment, the joy of completing our research dulled the agony. I allowed myself to celebrate and accept the cheers of those around me.
“Dr. Smith,” a voice called from the crowd. I turned to see one of my former interns holding a microphone. Her face was familiar, though marked by the passage of years.
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“What happened to you?” she asked, her voice trembling. “Your condition…”
I offered a soft smile, meeting her gaze.
“It’s nothing,” I said gently. “It was all worth it.”
During this mission, I contracted a rare infectious virus while treating patients. My mentor had once suffered the same fate, but I had been luckier.
My assistant had shielded me during the first exposure, giving me the time I needed to keep working. Five years in the lab, pushing through the pain until we reached the breakthrough we had all dreamed of.
