The white hotel sheet had a single dark spot on it, right where Amanda had been sleeping. It was a small circle, no bigger than a coin, but it looked very dark against the bright fabric.

I stood by the side of the bed in the gray light of the Dallas morning. My boots were already on, and my suitcase was zipped. Amanda was still asleep, her face half buried in the pillow, her dark hair messy across her forehead.

We had been divorced for two years. Before that, we had ten years of marriage that I broke with my own hands. I drank too much back then. I was not a good husband, and I was not a safe man to build a life with, so she left. I did not blame her.

But then came the alumni dinner in Dallas. We ran into each other near the lobby. We had a few drinks, though I only drank sparkling water because I had been sober for fifteen months. We talked, we laughed, and then we made a mistake.

I looked at the spot on the sheet again. I felt a small, quiet worry in my chest, but I pushed it down.

Amanda stirred, opening her eyes slowly. She saw me looking at the bed, and she immediately pulled the blanket up over her shoulders. Her face looked very tired.

“What is that?” I asked, pointing to the spot.

She did not look at me. “It is nothing, David. Just go. You have a flight to catch.”

“Are you sick, Amanda?”

“I said it is nothing,” she whispered. “Do not worry about it. We made a mistake last night. Let us just go back to our lives.”

So I left. I believed her because it was easy to believe her. I wanted to protect my quiet life, my job, and my hard-won sobriety. I told myself that leaving her alone was the most gentlemanly thing I could do.

I flew back to my small apartment in Chicago. I went to work every day at the warehouse. I kept my home clean. I lived simply, and I did not call her.

Then, exactly thirty-two days later, my phone rang while I was eating dinner.

The number on the screen was from Florida. I did not recognize it, but I answered anyway.

“Is this David Mercer?” a woman asked. Her voice was professional and very flat.

“Yes,” I said. “This is David.”

“I am calling from Jackson Memorial Hospital in Miami,” she said. “Your ex-wife, Amanda Reed, listed you as her emergency contact two years ago. She is here now. She is very ill, Mr. Mercer.”

My hand tightened around my fork. “What is wrong with her?”

“I cannot give you details over the phone,” the nurse said. “But she asked for you. She said you need to come right away.”

I did not sleep that night. I bought a ticket for the first flight to Miami.

During the three-hour flight, I kept thinking about that small red spot on the white hotel sheet. My mind kept returning to it, over and over, like a finger touching a sore tooth. I realized then that she had been bleeding, and she had hidden it from me.

The hospital in Miami was huge, cold, and smelled of strong soap. I found my way to the oncology ward on the fifth floor.

When I walked into room 512, I almost did not recognize Amanda.

She was sitting in a chair by the window. She had lost a lot of weight, and her beautiful dark hair was completely gone. A simple brown wig sat on the nightstand next to a plastic cup of water.

She looked at me, and her eyes were very large in her thin face. “You came,” she said.

“Of course I came,” I said. I sat down on the small stool near her chair. “Why did you not tell me you were sick, Amanda?”

“Because it was my battle to fight,” she said. Her voice was very weak. “But now, I cannot do this alone. I need help, David.”

“I will help you,” I said. “Whatever you need. I have some savings. I can stay here.”

She shook her head slowly. “It is not for me. I am going to be okay, eventually. The doctors say the treatment is working. But she needs you.”

I stared at her. “Who needs me?”

Amanda reached into the drawer of the nightstand. Her hand was trembling. She pulled out a small, glossy photograph and handed it to me.

I took it. My fingers felt very clumsy.

The photograph showed a little girl with big, serious brown eyes and dark curly hair. She was sitting on a yellow blanket, holding a stuffed rabbit. She looked exactly like my mother did in the old black-and-white pictures from Poland. She had my wide forehead. She had my nose.