Mark blinked. “Her spouse? She’s my wife.”
His voice cracked on the last word, as if he had only just remembered it.
A nurse near the door looked to me for permission. I gave the smallest nod.
“Sir,” she said gently, “Colonel Whitmore needs rest.”
Mark’s eyes snapped to me.
“Anna, tell them this is ridiculous.”
There it was.
The old expectation.
For years, he had relied on me to soften things, explain away his absences, smooth over his impatience, and carry the emotional weight of both of us.
But love was not supposed to erase a person.
And motherhood, I realized as I looked at my daughter sleeping beneath her pink hospital blanket, had drawn a line in me even heartbreak could not cross.
“I want him out,” I said.
My voice was rough from labor, but steady.
Mark flinched.
“Anna—”
“Now.”
Two military police officers were already waiting in the hall.
