“The next
day you said maybe we should get divorced.”
I sank into the chair.
The timing was unbearable.
A letter.
There had been a letter.
Maybe the truth had been sitting in
a drawer while I rehearsed my escape.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“I know.”
“Will you let me read it?”
She didn’t answer for a long time.
Then she said, “Not yet.”
I nodded, though disappointment pressed hard against my ribs.
“Okay.”
She looked at me then, almost confused.
“You’re not going to argue?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s yours.”
For a moment, her face seemed to tremble around an emotion she wouldn’t name.
Then she reached for the mystery novel on her bedside table.
“Chapter twelve,” she said quietly.
So I read.
The surgery was scheduled for the following Tuesday.
In the days leading up to it, Sophie grew quieter. Not distant exactly, but inward. She listened to doctors,
