Her words were meant to be comforting, a lifeline thrown to a drowning woman, but in that moment, they felt abstract, impossible to grasp. How do you begin a new story at sixty-three when the prologue lasted a lifetime?
I spent that night in Joyce’s guest room, staring at the ceiling, listening to the wind and feeling the phantom weight of Robert’s absence beside me. I oscillated between a blinding rage that made my hands shake and a profound, crushing grief that made it hard to breathe. I mourned not just the man, but the woman I used to be—the trusting, confident wife who thought she was safe.
That woman died the moment the email was opened, and I had no idea who was left to take her place. I felt foolish, naive, and incredibly old, stripped of the dignity that I thought was my birthright after so many years of playing by the rules.
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