The morning after Robert’s funeral, the woman he had married only weeks after divorcing me appeared on my porch holding his blue tie.

I recognized the tie before I truly saw her face. I had given it to Robert on our thirty-fifth anniversary. He wore it when he signed our divorce papers and again when he married Claire.
“Greta,” she said, “Robert made me promise not to tell you the truth until after he died.”

I gripped the door. “You had four months with my husband. Whatever truth you shared can remain buried with him.”

I began to close it.

“He didn’t leave you because he loved me.”

That stopped me.

Four months earlier, Robert and I had returned from the hospital after learning his cancer had spread. It was stage four. At home, I arranged his medicine beside the sink, as I had handled countless small details throughout our thirty-nine-year marriage.

“We’ll face this together,” I told him.

Robert pulled away.

“I don’t want you beside me, Greta.”

At first, I thought fear was speaking. Then he demanded a divorce and said he wanted to spend his remaining time with Claire, a coworker I barely knew.When our children, Hanna and Steven, arrived, Robert told them I was abandoning him.

I called it a lie, but he lowered his head and let them believe it. Steven asked him directly whether he had requested the divorce.I could understand his fear without calling the damage noble.

The next morning, I poured coffee into my own mug.

Robert’s remained in the cupboard.

He had spent thirty-nine years deciding what I could survive.

At last, I chose for myself.

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