"Take your inhaler, just in case."
Brendon, my ex-husband, sat slumped in a chair, face pale, eyes rimmed red. When he looked up, he seemed like a stranger.
"I don't know what happened," he kept saying. "We were just walking. One second he was standing, the next he just went down. I called 911 — they sent an ambulance. I rode with him the whole way."
I wanted to believe him, but this wasn't the first time Brendon had brushed off Andrew's health concerns. He'd skipped a follow-up last year and told Andrew not to "baby himself."
My gut twisted with a familiar, unwanted suspicion.
The doctor, a woman with tired eyes and a gentle voice, found me by Andrew's bedside.
