Then one evening, she simply didn’t return.
A week later, she confessed to him that she was in love with someone else.
I was sitting beside his bed when she spoke—her voice flat, rehearsed, already halfway gone. My son didn’t cry. He only closed his eyes, as though even the effort of comprehension drained what little strength he had left.
“I’ll file for divorce,” she added quickly. “It’s better this way.”
Better for whom, she never said.
