The only sounds were the steady ticking of the grandfather clock Robert had inherited from his parents and, somewhere outside, the distant laughter of my eight-year-old granddaughter, Emily, playing in the backyard. Jessica was working from home in the spare bedroom, still navigating her own divorce after her marriage collapsed last year.
The irony made my chest ache.
I had been supporting my daughter through her heartbreak—offering childcare, comfort, reassurance—never imagining that I would soon be standing at the edge of the same emotional cliff.
My phone rang.
Robert’s name lit up the screen.
For a fleeting, foolish moment, hope flickered. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe he was calling to say the papers were sent in error, that we needed to talk, that he still loved me.
“Catherine,” he said coolly. “I assume you received the papers.”
His voice was flat. Professional. Nothing like the warm tone he’d used when he kissed my cheek that morning before leaving for work. Nothing like the voice that had whispered I love you just three nights earlier as we watched a movie on the couch.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “If something was wrong, why didn’t you talk to me?”
“There’s no point dragging this out. We’ve grown apart. We want different things.”
“What different things?” I asked, my voice breaking. “We’ve been planning retirement together. Traveling. Spending time with the grandchildren. What changed?”
“Everything,” he replied. “I’ve hired an attorney. You should do the same. If we stay reasonable, this doesn’t have to get ugly.”
Reasonable.
As if forty-two years of shared life could be dismantled like a business contract.
“Robert, can you come home so we can talk face-to-face?” I pleaded. “Please.”
“I won’t be coming home. I’ve moved into an apartment downtown. My lawyer will contact you about property division.”
The call ended.
I stood in the kitchen where I had cooked breakfast for this man nearly every morning of our marriage, holding a phone that suddenly felt heavier than anything I had ever carried. I sank into the chair where Robert had been sitting just hours earlier, commenting on the weather and sipping his coffee.
How had I missed this?
How had my marriage ended while I was buttering his toast?
“Grandma Kathy?”
Emily stood in the doorway, her dark hair in the pigtails I had braided that morning. Her young face was tight with concern—an expression no child should have to wear.
“I’m okay, sweetheart,” I said softly. “Just reading some papers.”
“You look sad,” she said. “Is it about Grandpa Robert?”
The question startled me.
“Why would you ask that?”
She climbed onto the chair beside me and took my hand.
