My Husband Left Me at 54

Biscuit is my daughter’s dog.

« That’s fine, sweetheart, » I said. « Drop him off whenever. »

« You’re the best! » Monica said excitedly.

Howard wandered in then, phone in one hand, looking past me at the refrigerator. He’d been doing that a lot. Looking past me, not at me.

« You ironed the blue shirt? » he asked.

« It’s hanging on the door. »

« Drop him off whenever. »

My husband grunted, then chuckled at something on his screen. A small, private laugh, the kind people save for someone specific.

« Office thing? » I asked.

« Paige, my co-worker, » he said, not looking up. « She keeps calling after hours about the new scheduling system. You know how it is. »

I didn’t, actually. But I nodded because nodding was easier than asking or knowing.

I sat down for exactly four minutes to eat half a piece of toast.

« She keeps calling after hours. »

My back ached in that low, dull way that had become so familiar I almost mistook it for posture.

« I’m heading out, » Howard said behind me.

« Drive safely. »

« You working late? »

« Until six. Then I’ve got to pick up Steve’s prescription and get some dog food for Biscuit’s stay. »

My husband paused at the door. For a second, I thought he might say thank you, or notice the toast, or notice me.

« Right, » he said instead. « Okay. »