“No,” I snapped. “You don’t get to destroy 38 years with one sentence and then sit there like you misplaced your keys.”
His hands trembled, but he said nothing.
A week later, I filed for divorce.
“What’s her name?”
Richard didn’t contest it. He didn’t plead, he didn’t argue… it was neat, sterile, and merciless.
Gina told me later that he had stayed in contact with them — the kids and the grandkids. I told them I was fine with that… that I didn’t need to be included anymore.
That wasn’t true.
**
Five years went by. They were my quiet years — the years I stopped asking and stopped expecting answers.
I rebuilt my life slowly — lunches with friends, holidays with the kids, rearranging furniture so the rooms felt less like him.
That wasn’t true.
Then Gina called.
“Mom,” she said, her voice strained. “It was a heart attack. They said it happened fast.”
I didn’t cry. I just sat on the edge of the bed, listening to the silence lingering on the other end of the call.
“They’re holding a service,” she added. “I thought you should know.”
“Where?”
“At the old church, Mom,” she said, hesitating slightly. “Saturday morning. I’ll be there, and Alex too.”
“It was a heart attack.”
I agreed before I had time to think. I don’t know why — maybe I needed to prove to myself that I’d moved on. Or maybe some part of me hadn’t.
