“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“You’ve always been terrible at nothing.”
I set the bag down.
“I went to your apartment.”
“I know. I asked you to.”
“I found an envelope.”
The room went still.
Her face changed.
“You read it?”
“No.”
She stared at me, searching for the lie.
There wasn’t one.
After a moment, she looked away.
“Thank you.”
“What is it?”
“A letter.”
“I figured that much.”
She almost smiled, but not quite.
“I wrote it after my first appointment with Dr. Keller.”
My pulse quickened.
“Before the divorce?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you give it to me?”
She looked toward the window.
“Because by the time I finished writing it, you came home late from work, ate dinner standing at the counter, and told me you were too tired to talk.”
I closed my eyes.
“And the next day?” I asked quietly.
“The next day you said maybe we should get divorced.”
I sank into the chair.
The timing was unbearable.
A letter.
There had been a letter.
Maybe the truth had been sitting in a drawer while I rehearsed my escape.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“I know.”
“Will you let me read it?”
She didn’t answer for a long time.
Then she said, “Not yet.”
I nodded, though disappointment pressed hard against my ribs.
“Okay.”
She looked at me then, almost confused.
“You’re not going to argue?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s yours.”
For a moment, her face seemed to tremble around an emotion she wouldn’t name.
Then she reached for the mystery novel on her bedside table.
“Chapter twelve,” she said quietly.
So I read.
The surgery was scheduled for the following Tuesday.
In the days leading up to it, Sophie grew quieter. Not distant exactly, but inward. She listened to doctors, signed forms, and accepted visitors with a kind of composed politeness that worried me more than tears would have.
The night before surgery, a storm moved over Chicago.
Rain streaked the hospital windows, turning the city lights into long, trembling lines.
Linda had gone back to Sophie’s apartment to shower and sleep for a few hours. I stayed, sitting beside the bed while Sophie picked at a cup of gelatin she clearly didn’t want.
“You can stop pretending that tastes good,” I said.
She glanced at me. “I’m trying to be optimistic.”
