The receipt from the jeweler. Congratulations.
Carol at the café. Is this his wife?
She hadn’t been feeling sorry for me because he was cheating.
She’d been feeling sorry for me because she knew.
She knew he was sick. He must have told her. He must have stood at her counter and explained why he wanted the deck at sunset on September twentieth, and she’d heard it all.
And when I called, she thought I’d found out. She thought the surprise was ruined. Oh, honey.
I sat in his office chair with my head in my hands, and I cried. Really cried. Big, ugly, heaving sobs that I couldn’t have stopped if I tried.
I cried because he was sick.
I cried because I’d thought the worst of him.
I cried because he’d carried this alone for five months, getting up every morning and driving to work and kissing my cheek and saying love you like everything was fine.
