The next morning, the calls started. First, his mother called, who has a warm voice that sharpens when she is upset. “Stella, honey, I heard you asked Evan to leave. He was grieving, too. Men don’t always know how to show it. Give him grace.”
I sat at the kitchen table, tracing a ring left by a beer can. “Grace looks like patience. It doesn’t look like parties in my living room.”
“He needed support,” she pressed. “Caregiver burnout affects both partners.”
“Then he should have come to me,” I said. “I asked him to visit. He chose not to.”
Next was his sister, Brielle, who always talks fast. “He’s a wreck, Stel. He said he panicked. He said the house felt haunted without you. He said he was trying to keep busy. Can you at least meet him for coffee?”
“I can’t,” I said softly. “Not now.”
Then my aunt, who loves everyone’s business. “Divorce is too extreme,” she said. “People make mistakes when they’re hurting.”
“I planned a funeral at 25,” I said. “When I asked for my husband, he sent excuses. When I came home, he had strangers on my couch. That’s not a mistake. That’s a choice.”
After the third call, I put my phone face down and stared at the mess. I opened every window in the house.
I cleaned until my hands ached, until the rooms smelled like lemon and soap, and the rug stain faded to the faintest shadow. I found a photo of Mom under a stack of old mail, the one where she is laughing with her head thrown back, and I set it on the mantle. I lit a candle and watched the flame steady itself. The quiet felt like a blanket.
That night, Evan texted. The messages came one after another. I’m sorry. I was stupid. I didn’t know how to be without you. Please, talk to me. I put the phone down and let the screen go dark.
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