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.”

Wade leaned close, his voice dropping into a low and ugly register. “You have absolutely no idea how alone you are about to be once I am gone.”

Then he walked out with her, and the front door slammed with a finality that shook the windows.

I waited until the house fell into a heavy silence. Then I reached into the drawer beside my bed, took out the small black phone my attorney had given me, and called the one person Wade feared more than any judge.

“Katherine,” I said as soon as she answered. “He finally did it.”

My attorney’s voice was calm and reassuring. “Good, then we can finally begin the process.”