I was seventy-three when my husband looked me in the eye and said, “You’re old. You’re sick. I’m leaving you for someone who still matters.”

Or rather, while we built it together.

But men like Wade rewrite history when they find someone young enough to believe their lies.

Florence glanced around my bedroom with a look of disdain. “Don’t worry, Erica, we will make sure you are comfortable somewhere.”

“Somewhere?” I asked, my voice steady despite the ache in my chest.
Wade sighed, clearly irritated by the sound of my voice. “A retirement apartment or assisted living facility, whatever the lawyers decide to finalize.”

I looked at the suitcases by the door, noting the two leather bags, his watch box, and the framed photo of our summer home in Maine. He was not just leaving me.

He was collecting trophies to take into his new life.