I am sixty-five years old now, and when I look back at my life, most of it is inseparable from the man I once called my husband. We were married for thirty-seven years—years filled with morning coffee routines, arguments over thermostat settings, shared dreams whispered in the dark, and quiet sacrifices that never made it into photographs or anniversary toasts. I believed, with the stubborn certainty of someone who had built a life brick by brick, that whatever happened in this world, Patrick and I would face it together.

That belief shattered on a gray morning in a family courthouse in Cleveland, Ohio, five years ago.

The divorce itself was brief, almost mechanical, as if the legal system had grown weary of witnessing grief and wanted to finish quickly. Our lawyer—Patrick’s lawyer, really, since I couldn’t afford one—shuffled papers with practiced efficiency. The judge spoke in a monotone that suggested this was his twelfth case of the morning and he had twelve more waiting. When the papers were signed with ink that seemed to dry before it hit the page, my former husband Patrick Miller reached into his jacket pocket and handed me a plain bank card, the kind you get from any ATM machine.

His face was calm, almost distant, wearing that same neutral expression he used when discussing household bills or car maintenance. “This should cover you for a little while,” he said evenly, his voice devoid of the warmth I’d known for nearly four decades. “There are three hundred dollars on it.”