“I’m really sorry,” I said.
“Yeah, me too. I had a great trip with my mom. I was looking forward to my first day home, ready to get back to work, but instead, my morning started with getting served divorce papers.” Hector laughed bitterly.
“I am so sorry,” I repeated, feeling stupid. But what else do you say to someone who is utterly devastated?
“Thank you . . . she’s been asking me for a divorce for a while now. I’ve always said no, hoping we could get back to where we were, but it never happened. I guess she got tired of waiting for me to get on board with the separation—went ahead and pulled the trigger on our marriage.”
“That sucks, Hector.” Part of me meant it; another smaller, meaner part of me didn’t.
“Yeah, it does.”
“But it doesn’t excuse the way you treated that resident.”
“I know.” He sighed.
“Nor the scene you made. Now, everyone thinks we are—”
“I’ll fix it. I promise.”
I wiped my clammy hands on my scrub pants. I shouldn’t ask, it was none of my business, and yet I had to know. “Are you going to sign?”
His lips pressed together, but then he shook his head. “No. Not without one last-ditch effort to save things.”
He was a good man, and he was doing the right thing. Why, then, did it feel like that one year Dad forgot my birthday?
“Well, I need you to do me a favor. Take the day off. Go home. Stop making an ass of yourself.”