One year after the divorce, I ran into my ex-husband at the hospital, and when he smirked about having a one-year-old son with my former best friend, I smiled and said, “Really?” — five minutes before a man walked in and she dropped the baby bottle.

Five minutes before my ex-husband’s life started falling apart, he was standing in the pediatric wing of St. Andrews Memorial Hospital in Indianapolis, Indiana, holding a monogrammed diaper bag and telling anyone within earshot that leaving me had been the smartest decision he’d ever made.

I remember the exact time, because it was 10:17 a.m. I know, because I looked at the dark wood wall clock above the nurse’s station in the same moment I realized I was staring at Connor Fleming for the first time in nearly a year.

Some people say time heals everything, but I’ve never been completely sure about that theory.

What I do know is that twelve months after a messy divorce, you simply stop expecting certain surprises. You stop expecting to see your ex-husband in the middle of a busy Tuesday morning while you’re carrying a tablet full of patient charts, trying to make it to an urgent staff meeting.

That was especially true when he was standing beside your former best friend—and even more jarring when she was cradling a newborn baby.

I froze for half a second in the middle of the hallway. Not because I still loved him; that part of my heart had been gone for a long time. But some wounds leave deep scars, and those scars, physical and emotional, can ache when the weather changes.

That morning, Indianapolis was cold and incredibly gray. Heavy rain tapped against the hospital windows and streaked down the glass in uneven lines, which might explain the sudden chill I felt. Or maybe seeing the two people who helped destroy your marriage standing together in a public hospital hallway just never feels normal.