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The next day I ignored all his calls. Then… the phone rang, but it wasn’t him, it was our lawyer.
“If Charles told you to call me, then DON’T,” I said.
“No… he didn’t tell me to call. It’s about him. You need to sit down. This is serious,” the lawyer said. My heart was pounding. “What do you mean?” Her voice softened. “Your ex-husband collapsed last night. He was rushed to the hospital after a massive heart attack.” The room tilted. I grabbed the back of the chair to keep from falling.
“Is he… is he alive?” There was silence. Far too long. “They did everything they could,” he said quietly. “I’m really sorry.” The phone slipped from my hands. The images flooded back to me: Charles, standing in our kitchen every morning, making coffee the same way he had for fifty years… his quiet laugh… the way he always held my hand in the dark. Even the things I hated—his possessiveness, his stubbornness—suddenly seemed insignificant. Cruel, even.
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