From that moment forward, I became his caregiver. I learned to change IV bags, to coax him into swallowing two spoonfuls of soup, to sleep upright in a plastic chair without complaint. I bathed him. I read aloud when his eyes grew too tired to focus. I held his hand when pain made him tremble.
His wife hurried through the divorce paperwork. I signed nothing. I argued nothing. I simply stayed.
He passed away before the divorce was finalized.
At the funeral, she wore black and cried loudly once more. People whispered about her strength, about how difficult this must have been for her. I stood quietly at the back, clutching the last scarf I had wrapped around my son’s neck when his body could no longer regulate its own warmth.
A week later, the lawyer called.
