The manager quietly set a glass of water beside me, but I barely noticed.
I kept reading.
I lied to you the day of the divorce.
It was never 3,000 dollars.
If I had told you the truth, you would have pushed the card back into my hand or cut it in half in front of me.
I needed you to keep it, even if you kept it out of hatred.
The account holds your half of the house sale, your half of the retirement money, the savings, and everything else I could move into your name without a fight.
After the divorce, I added to it every month.
My mouth went dry.
Your half.
The words hit me harder than the balance had.
Not charity.
Not a last favor.
Mine.
But the next paragraph was the one that split me open.
Three weeks before I filed, the specialist told me I had ALS.
