The Coffee He Wouldn’t Drink

Every morning for thirty-nine years, I made my husband’s coffee before I made my own.

Two teaspoons of dark roast.

A splash of half-and-half.

No sugar.

Even after the oncologist told us the cancer had spread to Robert’s liver, lungs, and bones, I kept setting his mug beside the toaster as if routine could make the diagnosis less real.

That Tuesday, the coffee went cold.

Robert sat at the kitchen table in our home outside Columbus, Ohio, wearing gray sweatpants and the blue flannel shirt our daughter had given him for Christmas. He held a yellow legal pad on his lap.

He had drawn a line down the middle of the page.

On one side, he had written HOUSE.

On the other, ACCOUNTS.

I placed his mug beside him.

“Are we making a list for the attorney?”

He folded the pad shut.

“Something like that.”

“The estate attorney?”

He looked toward the window.

“I spoke to someone yesterday.”

That was the first thing that felt wrong.

For three weeks, I had sat beside Robert through blood tests, scans, and appointments. I knew which nurse had trouble finding his veins. I knew which medications made him nauseated. I knew he had stopped sleeping on his left side because of the pain beneath his ribs.

I did not know he had called an attorney.

I sat across from him.

“What kind of someone?”

He rubbed his thumb over the corner of the legal pad.

“A divorce attorney.”

The refrigerator clicked off.

For several seconds, the kitchen was so quiet I could hear the neighbor’s dog scratching at their back door.

“A divorce attorney,” I repeated.

“Yes.”

“For whom?”

His eyes finally met mine.

“For me.”

I looked at his untouched coffee.

“You have cancer.”

“I’m aware.”

“Stage four cancer.”

“Marian—”

“We have been married for thirty-nine years.”

“I know how long we’ve been married.”

His voice was calm. Too calm.

He placed the legal pad on the table and flattened both hands over it.

“I don’t want to spend whatever time I have left pretending.”

I waited.

He swallowed.

“There’s someone else.”

The words did not land all at once.

They came apart in pieces.

Someone.

Else.

Robert glanced toward the hallway, as if the woman might be standing there.

“Her name is Denise Parker. She worked with me at Whitmore Packaging.”

I knew the name.

Denise had managed payroll before Robert retired. She had sent us a fruit basket after his diagnosis.

“The woman with the short blond hair?”

“Yes.”

“The one who wrote, ‘Thinking of you both’ on the card?”

His mouth tightened.

“Marian, don’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“Make every detail ugly.”

I stood and poured his coffee into the sink.

Then I rinsed the mug, dried it, and placed it in the cabinet.

My hands did not shake until I closed the door.

The Papers on the Counter

Robert moved into a furnished apartment near the hospital four days later.

He packed two sweaters, three pairs of pants, his medications, and the blue silk tie I had given him on our thirty-fifth anniversary.

I stood in the bedroom doorway while he folded it into a small leather case.

“You don’t wear ties anymore.”

He paused.

“Denise likes it.”

I pressed my tongue against the back of my teeth.

“Of course she does.”

He carried his suitcase downstairs.

Our son, Andrew, arrived before Robert left. Our daughter, Caroline, came fifteen minutes later.

Neither of them had told me they were coming.

Andrew stayed near the front door with his arms crossed. Caroline went straight to her father and adjusted the collar of his coat.

“Dad, are you sure you have everything?”

“I’m sure.”

I looked from one of them to the other.

“You both knew?”

Caroline’s hand dropped.

“Dad told us you wanted space.”

“Space?”

Andrew stared at the floor.

“He said you couldn’t handle the treatments.”

Robert picked up his suitcase.

“This is not the time.”

I stepped between him and the door.

“You told them I was leaving you?”

“I told them the marriage was over.”

“That is not what I asked.”

Andrew exhaled hard.

“Mom, seriously? He’s dying.”

I turned toward him.

“I know exactly what is happening to your father.”

“Then why are you making this harder?”

Caroline touched my arm.

I moved away before she could grip it.

“Your father asked for a divorce four days ago. He told me he wants to spend his final months with Denise.”

Caroline looked at Robert.

“Dad?”

He opened the front door.

Cold air swept into the foyer.

“Your mother and I see things differently.”

“That is not an answer,” I said.

Robert looked at me for a long moment.

His face seemed older than it had upstairs.

“Let them believe what helps them get through this.”

Then he walked out.

Andrew followed with the suitcase.

Caroline remained in the doorway, her eyes wet and uncertain.

For one second, I thought she would stay.

Instead, she whispered, “I can’t believe you’re doing this now,” and left.

The divorce moved faster than I expected.

Robert’s attorney sent an agreement giving me the house, our retirement accounts, our investment portfolio, and most of the proceeds from the sale of his company.

He kept a small checking account, his truck, and a twelve-percent share in Whitmore Packaging.

My attorney, Susan Hale, read the agreement twice.

“He’s giving you almost everything.”

“Why?”

“Guilt. Fear. Generosity. I don’t know.”

She tapped the papers.

“But legally, Marian, this is extremely favorable.”

I stared at Robert’s signature.

It leaned slightly downhill, the way it always did when he was tired.

“There has to be something hidden.”

Susan shook her head.

“We checked.”

I signed.

Not because I wanted the marriage to end.

Because Robert had already ended it in every way that mattered.

The Wedding Photograph

Six weeks after our divorce became final, Andrew sent me a photograph by mistake.

Robert stood beneath a white arch in the courtyard of a hospice chapel. He wore the blue tie.

Denise stood beside him in a cream-colored dress.

Caroline held a small bouquet.

Andrew stood behind his father with one hand on his shoulder.

The message beneath the photograph read:

Dad looked happy today.

A second message arrived immediately.