“Pass it over,” Caro said. She tapped a few keys, and handed the phone back. “Are you going to send it?”

“Watch me.” I hit the blue arrow, and a second later, we heard the swish of the text going out into the wide world.

“Cheers,” Caro said, toasting me with a smile. “And the pizza’s here, too. A good omen.”

— —

In between going back and forth to the hospital and taking care of the work that couldn’t wait, I found that I was having an odd bit of . . . well, not fun. Satisfaction, that was it.

I’d texted WORK twice more, soothing her (his?) concerns about when they’d get together. Imitating my husband’s idiot language was simple, and WORK suspected nothing. Just sent more drivel about sex and passion and fires and what they could do to each other at the earliest possible convenience.

If John was gay, that would make things a lot better. Living in a straight marriage, yearning for a man . . . everyone could understand that. I’d be kind to his boyfriend, welcome him, even. Maybe we’d all be friends. Brianna and Sloane could have two grandfathers, since Oliver’s dad had died when Oliver was twelve. John would finally admit that it was never me that was the problem; it was his fear of coming out, but now that he had, he would thank me for the most wonderful daughters in the world. We’d be a happy, loving, modern family, laughing and cooking elaborate dinners, and this new man (Evan, I thought, Evan was a nice name) . . . Evan would help me decorate at Christmas and bring the most delicious pies to Thanksgiving and compliment me on a turkey that was absolutely delicious, because I did do a great turkey.

On the third text exchange, however, WORK had referenced her breasts and how she loved when John worshipped them, so that was the end of the happy gay fantasy, which was a real shame, because I had been getting awfully fond of Evan there.

I wasn’t crushed. I wasn’t heartbroken.

I was furious.

John had made my life into a cliché. My wife of fifty years doesn’t understand me. Finally, I can talk to someone! Life had become so routine, so gray. I wasn’t living . . . I was just existing. You, my beloved WORK, have changed all that.

And meanwhile, John just wouldn’t die. No sir. He kept on keeping on, leaving his daughters in misery, leaving me to stare at him as he slept in the hospital bed. For fifty years, I’d accepted his flaws. I knew I wasn’t perfect. I knew I had to work at life, not one of those people like Sadie, who seemed to have people falling into her lap. Yes, I wanted to divorce him. I deserved a divorce.