But suddenly, every evening, he prepared my chamomile tea himself.
He insisted on bringing it to me.
He insisted I drink it before bed.
And he insisted on washing the cup afterward.
One evening, I laughed at his new habit.
“Should I be worried that my husband has become a tea expert?”
“Absolutely. I’m considering opening a café.”
“What would you call it?”
He placed the cup in front of me.
“Second Chances.”
I smiled.
“That sounds more like a divorce service.”
“Then perhaps I’ll call it Forever.”
He leaned down and kissed me.
I drank the tea.
Twenty minutes later, I could barely keep my eyes open.
I remember walking upstairs, changing into my nightdress, and lying down.
I don’t remember falling asleep.
The next morning, I woke after nearly eleven hours of sleep with a headache so severe that I had to sit on the edge of the bed before attempting to stand.
