The woman startled, then softened her voice.
“Please. I’m sorry. It’s… hospice.”
That single word split the air between us.
Gina’s hand fell away.
“Mom? Are you okay?” Gina asked, leaning her head against my shoulder.
“I’m fine, sweetheart,” I said.
It wasn’t untrue. I didn’t feel shattered or tearful. I just felt… empty. Five years of silence had already carried out the mourning.
That’s what betrayal does — it doesn’t end when the divorce is finalized. It lingers, settles… and then solidifies into something so quiet it has no name.
I just felt… empty.
Richard and I met at 20. I was wearing a green sweater, he said it brought out my eyes, and I rolled them so dramatically I nearly missed my bus. He was witty, gentle, and impossibly kind.
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