The Day He Asked For Divorce Was The Day I Was Dying Chapter 06

Sam didn’t remember how he left the hospital.

A neighbor picked up Margaret. She held onto Sam’s sleeve and said a lot of things, unsteady on her feet, her voice breaking.

Sam nodded the whole time, but he didn’t hear a single word she said.

He held the wooden box against his chest. It wasn’t heavy, but it pressed down on him until he could barely breathe.

The rain had grown heavier by the time he drove home.

He put the key in the lock, then his hand stopped.

He remembered a few days ago. I had stood in the living room and told him I needed to pack some things.

At the time, he thought I was finally being reasonable. Finally getting out of the way so he could move on with Juliette, he had actually felt relieved.

Now he understood.

When I said “packing,” I wasn’t looking for a new apartment.

I was settling my affairs.

The light in the entryway was on.

The boxes were gone from the living room. But on the coffee table, there was a small plastic bag.

Inside were a few handwritten labels and a marker.

Sam walked into the kitchen.

Every cabinet door had a label: spices, canned goods, cleaning supplies, water filters.

On the side of the refrigerator, a handwritten chart listed expiration dates for everything, down to the day.

He opened the second drawer.

Inside was a folded piece of paper. On it, I had written the recipe for beef stew. Every step was clear and precise.

At the bottom, in smaller letters: [Don’t drink this cold. Your stomach can’t handle it, don’t be a

hero.] Sam put the paper back in the drawer and closed it gently.

He went into the bedroom.

He opened the closet, where his clothes were hung by season. In the middle, there was an extra box.

He opened it. Inside was a heated knee brace, the tags still on. The shipping label showed it had arrived six days ago.

The day before I was admitted to the hospital.

He remembered that evening. I had been sitting on the sofa, saying my stomach hurt.

He remembered the way I looked at him. Now he finally understood what that look meant.

It was a quiet goodbye.

Sam stood in front of the closet for a long time.

His phone buzzed with a message from Juliette: [The gallery is all set up. Can you come by tomorrow? I’m not sure about the lighting.]

A few seconds later, another message: [Sam, are you still busy? I’m feeling scared.]

He stared at the words on the screen, his thumb hovering over the keyboard.

There was a time when, if Juliette said she was scared, he would have gone running.

He told himself she was alone. She was fragile. She needed him.

But now, three full minutes passed.

He turned off the phone and set it on the nightstand.

His office computer was still on, the note file still open on the screen.

[First item: Tear out the rose bush by the backyard fence. Completed.

Second item: Get rid of all the neutral clothes in the closet. Completed.

Third item: Finalize divorce before the thirteenth of next month.]

Sam sat down slowly in the chair and stared at the last line.

[If she threatens suicide, call the police. Don’t let her make a scene at the new place.]

He had written those words at two in the morning.

That night, Juliette had called him crying. She was afraid I would make a scene.

He had calmed her down, then opened his note file and calmly, carefully, planned out every step of erasing his wife from his life.

When he was typing, I had been in the next room. Maybe I was curled up in bed, trying to manage the pain. Maybe I was wiping up blood from the bathroom floor.

And he had sat here, with his careful plan, uprooting me from his life as cleanly as pulling a weed.

Sam slowly raised his hands and deleted the note file, line by line.

The screen was empty.

The house was empty.

And so was the rest of his life.