We signed the papers in the morning—fifty years dissolved in a few strokes of a pen—and our lawyer suggested coffee to mark the end of something we’d once believed would never end. It was civil, almost gentle, until the menus arrived and Charles, out of pure habit, told the waiter what I’d have.
Something inside me tore.
“This is exactly why I never want to be with you,” I said, louder than I meant to, and walked straight out into the bright, indifferent day.
I ignored his calls all night. The phone finally rang again, and I snapped before I could help myself. “If he asked you to call me—”
“It’s not that,” our lawyer said softly. “He collapsed after you left. A stroke. He’s in the ICU.”
I was out the door before the call ended.
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