"Six months," Dr. Patel says, and I watch his mouth move but the words don't land right. "Lily needs a heart transplant within six months." I'm holding my daughter's hand. She's seven years old, swinging her legs off the exam table, humming something from that cartoon she loves. She doesn't understand what the cardiologist just said. I barely understand it myself. "The total cost will be approximately eight hundred fifty thousand dollars," Dr. Patel continues, his voice steady and clinical. "Your insurance will cover roughly half." Half. Four hundred thousand dollars. I have seventeen hundred in my checking account. "There are payment plans," he's saying. "Financial assistance programs. We'll connect you with—" Marcus's phone buzzes. Loud, insistent. He pulls it from his pocket and I see the name on the screen: *Simone*. He stands up. "Marcus," I say. "I have to take this." He's already moving toward the door. "We're in the middle of—" "Simone's having a panic attack." He's typing something, not looking at me. "She needs me." Dr. Patel stops mid-sentence. Even he looks uncomfortable. "Your daughter just—" I start, but Marcus is already opening the door. "I'll be right back," he says. "Five minutes." The door closes behind him. Lily tugs my hand. "Mommy, when can we go home?" Dr. Patel clears his throat. "Mrs. Reyes, I know this is overwhelming. Let me get you some information packets, and we can schedule a follow-up to discuss—" "My husband just left," I say. The words sound strange. Factual. "Our daughter needs a heart transplant and he just walked out to take a call from another woman." Dr. Patel doesn't respond. What can he say? Through the small window in the door, I can see Marcus in the hallway. He's smiling. Actually smiling, phone pressed to his ear, one hand gesturing as he talks. Lily squeezes my fingers. "Is Daddy coming back?" "I don't know," I whisper. And for the first time in our eight-year marriage, I mean it.