After 27 years of marriage, my husband told me I’d “let myself go” and left me for another woman. I thought he’d taken my confidence with him, until I found a forgotten box in our garage that proved exactly who had been holding our family together. My husband said I’d “let myself go” after 27 years of marriage and left me for another woman.
Three months later, I found a forgotten box in our garage and used it. The next morning, he came to my door screaming, “How could you, Greta?”
But first, there was the chicken pot pie. That was Frank’s favorite meal.
For 27 years, Thursday smelled like butter, rosemary, and the little bit of garlic Frank claimed he didn’t like. “How could you, Greta?”
That night, I set the dish in the middle of the table and waited for him to do what he’d always done. Loosen his tie.
Kiss the top of my head. Say, “Smells good, Greta.”
Instead, Frank walked in, looked at the table, and said, “I’m not hungry.”
I turned from the counter. “Since when?”
Smells good, Greta.”
He didn’t smile.
He stood with one hand on the chair, like sitting down would make him lose his nerve. “I don’t want dinner,” he said. “And I don’t want to do this anymore.”
“Do what?
Thursdays?”
“No.” His voice went flat. “Us.”
For a moment, all I heard was the oven ticking behind me. “Frank.”
“I don’t want to do this anymore.”
“I want a divorce, Greta.”
I squeezed the oven mitts so tightly my fingers hurt.
“We’ve been married for 27 years,” I said, as if he’d misplaced the number. “I know.”
“Then say it like it means something to you.”
He looked away. That’s when I knew.
“Then say it like it means something to you.”
I pulled the mitts off and laid them on the counter. “Is there someone else?”
His silence answered first. Then he said, “Her name is Brittany.”
The name sounded too young to be standing between us after 27 years.
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