FIVE YEARS WITHOUT HIM
The first year after the divorce was the hardest.
I had spent nearly four decades being part of an “us.” Suddenly, every decision belonged only to me.
I hated the empty side of the bed and the mail addressed only to Margaret Turner. Songs from college could still make my hands shake.
Our children tried not to take sides. Michael rarely spoke about his father. Claire visited him occasionally, and the grandchildren saw him a few times a year.
Richard never came to events when I was there. He never called.
Eventually, I learned to build a life around the silence.
I retired from teaching. I joined a book club. I repainted the house yellow because Richard had always preferred blue. I traveled to Arizona with two friends and stood at the edge of the Grand Canyon, surprised that the world could still make me feel small in a good way.
I was not happy every day, but I was no longer drowning.
Then, five years after our divorce, the hospital called.
A calm voice told me Richard had suffered a fatal heart attack. He had died before the ambulance reached the emergency room.
For several seconds, I could not speak.
Legally, I was no longer his wife. Emotionally, I did not know what I was.
I cried for the young man by the classroom window, the father who had held our babies, the husband I had trusted, and the stranger he had become.
Most of all, I cried because there would never be answers.
Or so I thought.
