For thirty-seven years, I was Patrick Miller’s wife.
Our marriage wasn’t romantic in the way movies like to pretend. It was made of routines—morning coffee, shared bills, quiet dinners, arguments that faded into silence. It wasn’t perfect, but it was honest. I believed that whatever happened—illness, age, hardship—we would face it side by side.
The end came in a family courthouse in Cleveland. No shouting. No tears. Just signatures on paper and the dry sound of pages being stamped. Decades of life reduced to a few paragraphs written in legal language.
When it was over, Patrick didn’t hesitate.
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