I watched them buy flowers and go inside. I followed, kept my distance, and saw them enter a room on the third floor. When they left, Avery was crying. I tried to go in, but a nurse stopped me.
The following day, they went again. This time, I didn’t wait.
Inside the room was my ex-husband, David—pale, thin, hooked to an IV. Ryan admitted the truth: David was dying. He’d reached out to Ryan, desperate to see Avery before it was too late. Avery had begged him not to tell me, afraid I’d say no.
I was furious. David had walked out on us years ago. He didn’t fight for his daughter then. But Avery wasn’t asking for forgiveness—only permission to say goodbye.
