Escaping My Doctor Ex-Boyfriend's Terminal Neglect

Heh.

The sound wasn’t a laugh, not really. It was more like air escaping a punctured tire, a final, deflated sigh. I stared at my phone, the screen dark now, Sebastian’s last excuse still buzzing in my ear like a dead fly.

“Something came up at the office. Suzanna’s onboarding paperwork is a mess. I have to stay and help her sort it.”

Something came up. Suzanna.

I shoved the phone back into my coat pocket, the cold metal of the case biting into my palm. The late Friday afternoon sun cut across the train platform in sharp, dusty lines, making everything look faded and old.

Including me. Including the woman standing beside me.

I turned and leaned into her, burying my face against the worn wool of her shoulder. Her body was so thin now, the bones sharp under the fabric. A tremor ran through me, starting deep in my chest and shaking out through my limbs until the tears just fell. No sob, no sound. Just a hot, silent flood that soaked into her coat.

“I’m done,” I whispered into the wool, my voice raspy and raw. “I’m done waiting for him.”

Margaret Goode, my mother, didn’t pull away. Her hand came up, hesitant and light, to pat my back.

“Maddie…”

“I’m coming home,” I said, the words firm even as my face was still pressed against her. “I’ll quit. I’ll pack up.

I’ll be there by Monday.”

Her patting stopped. A stillness settled over her, heavier than the autumn air. “What about… what about the wedding?”

The question was so small, so bewildered. It punched through the last dam inside me.

The wedding.

I pulled back, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. The smear of tears felt gritty. “There isn’t one,

Mom.”

Her face, pale and etched with new lines I hadn’t noticed last month, crumpled into confusion. “But… the ring? The plans? Sebastian—”

“Sebastian,” I said, and the name tasted like ashes. “Sebastian Ross is a coward wrapped in a nice suit.”

The memory didn’t come gently; it slammed into me, vivid and cruel.

It was six weeks ago. The call had come in the middle of my workday, my supervisor’s voice quiet and solemn. Stage two. Gastric. We need to discuss treatment options immediately. My hands went numb. The world tilted. I stumbled out of the office, into the sterile hallway, and my first instinct—my stupid, ingrained instinct—was to call him. To call Sebastian.

His phone rang. And rang. And then he answered, his voice distracted, background noise of a busy restaurant or a bar clattering behind him.

“Madelaine? Hey, what’s up?”

“Seb,” I choked out. “It’s Mom. They… they found cancer. It’s… it’s bad. I need you. Can you come? Can you meet me at the hospital?”

A pause. Not a shocked one. A calculating one. “Oh, Maddie. Jesus. That’s… awful.”

“Can you come?”

More background noise. A laugh, high and feminine. Suzanna Locke’s laugh. I’d heard it before, at company