While they sat at the table, I continued cooking. Every movement was deliberate and controlled. My hands did not shake. My expression did not change. No one in that room could see that something inside me had already closed, quietly and permanently.
For years, I had been the silent wife. I did not ask why he came home late. I accepted vague explanations. I signed documents without questioning figures that never quite aligned.
Patrick forgot one important thing. Before I was his wife, I was his accountant.
Dinner was ready. I served the plates carefully, just as I always had.
“Thanks, Emma,” Patrick said. “Heather, try this. My wife always makes everything taste good.”
Heather took a bite and smiled.
“It must be comforting to focus only on the home,” she said. “I could never live without independence.”
I met her gaze calmly.
“Independence comes,” I said softly, “when you learn how to wait.”
Patrick laughed and raised his glass.
“To life,” he said.
I raised mine as well. In my mind, that toast felt like a farewell. While they ate, I placed my phone on the table. The screen lit briefly with a single message.
“The documents are now with the attorney.”