I worked two jobs to help fulfill my husband’s dream of becoming a doctor — at his graduation, he handed me divorce papers, but just as I was walking away, one of his classmates said, “Before you leave, there’s something you should know.”

“No,” Daniel said.

“If it can be documented, it could be a serious problem for Nathan’s license.

Before he even starts.”

I looked around the study.

The lecture notes.

The framed copy of Nathan’s acceptance letter to medical school, the one I had framed myself and given to him as a gift.

The small plant on the windowsill that I watered every Thursday.

“Tell your sister I’ll call her at nine tomorrow morning,” I said.

“I’ll let her know.”

I hung up.

I looked at the prepaid phone again.

Then I looked at the acceptance letter on the wall.

I had been so proud of him.

The front door opened.

Nathan’s key in the lock.

His footsteps in the hallway.

He stopped in the doorway of the study and looked at me.

Then he looked at the prepaid phone on the desk between us.

His face went very still.