I loved this patio. We used to eat out here when the weather was nice, the whole family. I’d combed the countryside for antiques to decorate the space—a granite horse head sculpture sitting on the gatepost to the backyard, an old millstone, the iron planters.

The wine tasted so good—a fat, buttery chardonnay that John had hated, being the kind of wine snob who only drank reds, or port as an after-dinner drink. He’d made fun of me in that wine-tasting class. Barb’s the type who thinks there’s nothing wrong with ice cubes in her pinot grigio. The teacher had winced before recovering.

“Guess I got the last laugh,” I said now, even though he couldn’t know what I was talking about. “No more alcohol for you, John. I bet you miss it.”

He was listening. Sometimes he just stared off into the middle distance, but tonight, he seemed a little more present.

“Juliet’s party is this Saturday,” I said. “I’m sorry I’m not bringing you. It’s just that I need a little break. A few hours with people who like me, don’t you know?” Another sip of the glorious chardonnay. “I’ve been wondering when you stopped, by the way. We were happy once. We were solid for a long time, I thought. Not exactly setting the bedroom on fire, but I liked our life. Thought you liked us, too. We had the girls and then the grandbabies. That was enough for me.”

Except it hadn’t been. Not really, if I was going to be honest.

“I’ll tell you something, John. I was planning on divorcing you. I was going to tell you on our anniversary, for effect. ‘Hey, we’ve been married for fifty years and I’d like a divorce. Happy anniversary.’ I didn’t know you were cheating. I was just done with you. It was how little you thought of me, John. I wonder how often I crossed your mind, even living in the same house.”

“Dig,” he said, startling me. I looked at him, and he scowled.

“That’s good, John. Keep trying. You’re doing real good.” Or was he just making noise, poor thing?

“Horse.”

“That’s right. The horse head. You never liked it.” These word bursts were a good sign. Dig could be because of the gardening, but maybe that was a stretch.

His mouth worked.

“Got anything else to say there, John?” I asked.

He scowled again and pulled the blanket up to his chin, sulking much like Brianna did these days. Well, maybe he liked me talking to him as if he could understand. Maybe he could, who knew?