It was the first hint of humor between us in months. I smiled, and it hurt. “Medical folder?”

She nodded. “Mostly test results. Insurance forms. A few things I haven’t decided what to do with.”

I carried the soup over on a tray. She took it with both hands and blew gently across the surface, and the motion nearly undid me. We’d built years of marriage from moments like this — soup, tea, folded blankets, quiet evenings.

Then we’d convinced ourselves those small things weren’t enough to save anything.

“When did you get sick?” I asked.

She stirred the soup without eating. “Before the divorce was final.”