wo months after the ink dried on our divorce papers, I found myself walking the sterile, fluorescent-lit halls of the Semmelweis Clinic.
The irony was almost unbearable.
For ten years, my husband, Mark, had worked there as a cardiologist. During our marriage, I’d spent countless hours in those halls—bringing him lunch during long shifts, waiting for him after emergency surgeries, and occasionally joining staff events where everyone seemed to know each other like family.
