Then, in the last year, something in him pulled away.
He grew private with his phone.
He started leaving the house at strange hours.
He sat at the dinner table looking past me instead of at me.
When I asked what was wrong, he would say he was tired.
When I asked whether there was someone else, he laughed once, without humor, and told me not to be ridiculous.
Three months later, he filed for divorce.
On the day it became official, we stood in the family court hallway with people moving around us and fluorescent lights making everyone look sick.
He put a bank card in my hand and said, almost casually, “Take it.
That should be enough to keep you going for a little while.”
I wanted to throw it at his face.
I wanted to demand an explanation for why thirty-seven years of partnership had ended in paperwork and an insult.
