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.”

Two years earlier, after my diagnosis, I had done what Wade never expected.

I had stopped trusting in the fading memory of our love and started reading every single legal document I could find.

It was not because I planned revenge, but because illness teaches you a brutal lesson that everyone shows you who they truly are when they think you are weak.

Wade started missing our dinners, then he started hiding his calls, and eventually, Florence appeared as a consultant at the company with a salary large enough to embarrass a brain surgeon.

At first, I said nothing, but I began asking quiet questions.