It’s been six months now. We talk once a week, mostly about the paperwork and the house. It’s not a marriage anymore, but it’s an honest ending. I don’t know if I can ever forgive him for the secret or the sickness, but I’ve stopped being the woman who waits in the kitchen for a call that isn’t coming. I’m just me again. And honestly, that’s enough for now. The house is quiet, but for once, it’s my silence, not his. I’m learning how to breathe without checking the mail.