“Emergencies.”
“Fifty years together, and I get emergency money? Wow.”
His jaw tightened. “Don’t make this ugly, Sylvie.”
I looked at the suitcases, then at his coat, then at the driveway, where Marcy’s red car waited.
“There’s $2,000 in there, Sylvie.”
Marcy was the woman from the book club Walter had suddenly started attending every Thursday.
“No, Walter,” I said. “You already did that.”
“I don’t want you struggling, hon.”
I laughed once. It sounded older and sadder than I felt.
“You should have thought of that before you traded me in for her.”
At the door, he patted his pockets, searching.
“Your blood pressure pills, Walter,” I said.
“I don’t want you struggling, hon.”
He turned.
“They’re on the counter.”
For a second, shame crossed his face. Then he tucked the bottle into his pocket and left.
