It was the same as always, somehow. If we had a good time, John always credited someone else. “That Caro is a spitfire” or “Ted has the funniest stories, doesn’t he?” or “Boy, that museum had some amazing pieces!” There was never a “thanks for looking that up and buying the tickets and getting me out of my chair when I was whiny about going in the first place.” He never called me a spitfire or complimented me on telling a good story, even though Caro and Ted laughed and laughed when I told them about my childhood war with that giant goat we’d had.

No, John just gave me a look. Her one fun story from childhood. Here we go again.

And in the entire time I was faking it, hoping to make it, John never reciprocated. He didn’t bring me flowers. He didn’t suggest we do something, go somewhere. He just showed up, sometimes after I had to pitch it to him, to win him over to the idea of seeing a darn movie.

Exhausting.

Sex, which had become rote during the infertility years, became something I just didn’t want to bother with anymore. I knew I was supposed to care, but a person got tired of asking, don’t you know. A person can feel real bad for having to ask. John didn’t seem to notice. I stopped trying to do couple things. He didn’t seem to care. We stopped talking almost completely. It was better than forcing a meaningless conversation.

So when I got the call that he was probably dying, the grief came as a real shock. Not as big a shock as the adultery, but that came an hour or so later.

CHAPTER SIX

Barb