He sat down.
For the first time that morning, he didn’t look like the confident surgeon everyone trusted.
He looked like my husband.
The man I’d slept beside for eleven years.
The man who knew how I took my coffee.
The man who knew I cried during certain movies.
The man who knew our daughter’s favorite cereal.
And somehow, he had made the biggest decision of our lives without me.
“I thought I was doing something good,” he whispered.
“Maybe you were.”
I picked up the lunch bag.
“But you did it the wrong way.”
I put it on his desk.
“Eat.”
He looked at me.
“What?”
“I brought you lunch.”
“Chelsea…”
“I’m angry with you.”
“I know.”
“I’m hurt.”
“I know.”
“But I’m not going to punish you by letting you starve.”
He almost smiled.
Almost.
I turned toward the door.
“I’m not moving.”
His head lifted.
“What?”
“I’m not moving six weeks from now.”
