I left the hospital carrying my daughter’s ashes when my husband finally called from wherever he was with his mistress and coldly said, “The bill has been taken care of. Stop bothering me.” I didn’t argue with him. I didn’t allow him to hear my voice break.

“Do you hate me, Nora?” Brendan asked, looking across the table.

I thought about Chloe struggling through endless hospital nights while I repeatedly defended Brendan to myself.

I remembered begging his assistant for medical approvals and convincing myself my husband was simply busy rather than accepting that he had chosen not to look closely enough.

“Hating you would mean I am still spending my energy on you,” I told him honestly.

Brendan signed the papers without another word.

Before I stood up to leave, he removed a small velvet box from inside his coat pocket.