“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“No,” I snapped. “You don’t get to destroy 38 years and act like you lost your keys.”
His hands trembled, but he stayed silent.
A week later, I filed for divorce.
He didn’t fight it. No arguments, no apologies. Just… distance.
Gina later told me he stayed in touch with them—the kids, the grandkids. I said I was fine with it.
I wasn’t.
Five years passed.
Quiet years.
I rebuilt my life slowly—lunches with friends, holidays with my children, rearranging rooms so they felt less like him.
Then Gina called.
“Mom… it was a heart attack. They said it was quick.”
I didn’t cry. I just sat there, listening.
“They’re having a service. I thought you should know.”
“Where?”
