Three weeks had passed, and I still sat in the same chair every morning, staring at the exact spot where Marcus had placed those papers.
Twenty-two years of marriage had been reduced to one evening when he came home from work, placed a manila folder on the kitchen table, and said one sentence.
“I don’t think we’re meant to grow old together.”
That was what my husband said. No shouting. No tears. And no known affairs.
I honestly thought he was joking. He wasn’t.
When I begged him to explain
