“I wrote it after my first appointment with Dr. Keller.”
My pulse quickened.
“Before the divorce?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you give it to me?”
She looked toward the window.
“Because by the time I finished writing it, you came home late from work, ate dinner standing at the counter, and told me you were too tired to talk.”
I closed my eyes.
“And the next day?” I asked quietly.
“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.
