Three weeks.
I went backward through that month without wanting to. Randall burning toast and scraping the black into the sink. Randall taking the garbage out before I asked. Randall sitting too long in the car after coming home from what he had called a routine appointment.
I remembered asking whether his stomach was bothering him.
He had said barbecue at Wade’s house had finally caught up with him.
My eyes lifted.
Wade had gone pale.
“There was no barbecue.”
He shook his head.
“You covered for him then too.”
“He hadn’t told you yet.”
“Apparently that was going around.”
“Meryl, he was trying to figure out how.”
“He had three weeks.”
“He had three weeks to understand he was dying.”
“And thirty-five years to understand I was his wife.”
Wade looked down.
That silence gave me no satisfaction. It only made me angrier.
I returned to the letter.
