“Eight months.”
“Have you been sleeping with her?”
He looked at the floor.
I didn’t need another answer.
“Does she know you’re married?”
“Yes.”
“Does she know you have children and grandchildren?”
“Margaret—”
“Does she?”
“Yes.”
I turned away.
For a moment, I thought I might collapse. My chest felt tight, and the kitchen seemed to have become too small to contain the air I needed.
Then I heard him say something that made me turn back.
“I haven’t been happy for a long time.”
There it was.
The sentence that would haunt me for weeks.
I had spent years helping him recover after surgery. I had sat beside him when his business failed. I had taken extra shifts when money was tight, cared for his father during his final illness, and encouraged him when he felt useless after retirement.
I wasn’t claiming our marriage had been perfect.
We had argued. We had disappointed each other. There had been lonely evenings and difficult years.
