Who's Crying Now, Ex-Husband? novel Chapter 381

Through the glass, Mila gazed at the elderly woman lying motionless inside the hospital room. Her eyes instantly reddened, and a lump formed in her throat, making it hard to speak.

The doctor was standing by, explaining the patient’s condition once more. He spoke in French. Sophie, who had been quietly standing nearby, was just about to offer a translation, but Mila shook her head. “It’s all right—I understand.”

Her French was excellent.

It was strange, really. Over the past few years, Mila had made plans to travel abroad with Miranda, had all her paperwork ready well in advance, but every time a trip approached, something would come up at work or at home, and the plans would get postponed. This was actually her first time leaving the country.

Despite that, she had always dreamed of exploring the world, so she never slacked off on her language studies. She’d hired plenty of private tutors, learned several languages—and French was her best.

She exchanged a few words with the doctor. At first, she was a little rusty, but after a few sentences, her tongue loosened, and the conversation became fluid. Soon, she understood the essentials.

The patient’s overall health was fairly robust, but she’d suffered a sudden cerebral hemorrhage. The bleeding was minor; there was a strong chance she’d wake up. Still, complications could happen. If she remained comatose for too long, she could end up in a persistent vegetative state—or worse: she might not survive at all.

For now, all anyone could do was wait and observe.

Mila forced herself to stay calm and asked the doctor for a set of protective gear.

Only after she was fully suited up did she enter the sterile hospital room. She walked slowly to the bedside and gazed quietly at the unconscious woman’s face.

Her skin was pale and deeply lined with the passage of time.

Never before had Mila felt so sharply aware that the guiding light of her life—the woman who had always been bold, decisive, unwavering—could be so fragile.

Everyone ages, she realized.

“Aunt Grace…” she whispered through the plastic visor, and her tears sprang forth, fogging her mask and blurring her vision.

Her next words came out in a trembling, fragile murmur.

“I’m here, Aunt Grace. It’s me, Mila. Can you open your eyes and talk to me? I promise I’ll never leave you again. Please, don’t scare me like this.”

“Please… don’t go to sleep, look at me…”

She knew Aunt Grace couldn’t hear her, but Mila couldn’t stop repeating herself, her voice breaking down, each plea more desperate than the last.

Her legs gave out, and she slowly sank to her knees beside the bed.

Through the cold barrier of the protective suit, she gently took Aunt Grace’s wrinkled hand in hers. She couldn’t feel the familiar warmth or texture—just a strange, sterile chill.

Suddenly, all her composure shattered.

Mila knelt on the floor, sobbing silently, her head spinning, her breathing ragged and shallow, chest heaving with the force of her grief.

One of the doctors standing watch outside noticed something was wrong. He quickly donned protective gear, came in, and helped her out of the room. He removed her mask, his voice urgent as he coached her to breathe slowly and steadily until she finally calmed down.

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