My name is Sylvie, and after fifty years of marriage, my husband Walter walked out of our home with two leather suitcases and a bank card.

He placed it on the kitchen table beside my chipped blue teacup and said, “There’s two thousand dollars in there. For emergencies.”

I stared at him, then at the suitcases near the door, then out the window where Marcy’s red car waited in the driveway.

Marcy was the woman from his book club, the one he suddenly had to meet every Thursday evening.

“Fifty years,” I said quietly, “and all I get is emergency money?”

Walter’s face tightened. “Don’t make this ugly, Sylvie.”

“No,” I said. “You already did.”

He told me he didn’t want me struggling. I almost laughed. He should have thought about that before trading me in for another woman.

As he turned to leave, he patted his pockets, searching for something.

“Your blood pressure pills are on the counter,” I said.

For one second, shame crossed his face. Then he took the bottle and walked out.

I waited until Marcy’s car disappeared before I picked up the card and placed it inside an old cookie tin above the stove. I told myself I would never use it. I would rather stretch every dollar than spend Walter’s guilt.

For five years, I kept that promise.

I learned to live carefully. I fixed small things around the house with online videos. I made groceries last longer than they should have. At church, when people asked if I was adjusting, I smiled.

Adjusting was such a polite word for being left behind.