Molade was overwhelmed—a storm of emotions crashing over her as she stood there, her legs trembling. Shock, disbelief, anger. What she saw before her was impossible. How could this be? How could he be alive? No, it couldn’t be true. She collapsed into a chair, eyes locked on him, and whispered his name.
“How can it be? You are alive.”
He stared back, confused, as if she had lost her mind. “What do you mean, I’m alive? I’ve always been alive.”
“No,” she breathed, “you were dead. I was told you were dead. They said you were dead.”
“Did you see my grave?” His voice was cold. “You accepted it because it was easier for you to move on. To forget me. Your family never liked me anyway. You wanted to believe I was dead to fit the life you were used to.”
“You’re wrong,” she protested, voice breaking.
He shrugged, indifferent. “What can I do for you today?”
Molade stared at him, incredulous. “I didn’t come here because I was sick. I came because I saw a document with your name on it, dated three years after you were supposed to be dead. I had to see for myself.”
“You’re in luck then,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Now that you know I’m alive, are you ready to leave?”
How could he be so callous? Where was the man she had loved, the man she had married? His coldness cut deeper than any wound. “I see I mean nothing to you,” she said, her voice trembling. “The day I walked out of your life, you were dead to me. I don’t know you anymore. I feel nothing for you. I have moved on.”
Molade shook her head, tears brimming. He would never know the truth now. She was dead to him, and dead she would remain. Rising with the last shreds of her dignity, she whispered, “I’m sorry for wasting your time, doctor.” And with that, she walked out of his office, each step a painful echo of the life and love she had lost, found and lost again within a twinkling of an eye. He would never know the only chance he had to know—gone, just like that. She was dead to him
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