“Soon everything will be different, sweetheart. Just hang on a little longer. He’s almost ready to get everything finalized.”
Eleanor had frozen in the hallway, holding someone else’s phone. The word “sweetheart” cut deeper than she expected. Mark had never called her anything like that—not even in the first months of their relationship.
He had never been sentimental, and Eleanor had long ago made peace with that, telling herself everyone showed love differently. But for someone else, apparently, he had found tenderness. For someone else, he had words he hadn’t given his wife in years. “What’s taking so long out there?” Mark called from the living room.
Eleanor jumped as if she’d been slapped. She locked the screen and walked back in. She handed him the phone, trying not to let her hand shake. “Here.”
Mark took it without looking at her and immediately focused on the screen. Eleanor saw the faint smile that crossed his face. He was reading something clearly not meant for her eyes. She went into the bathroom, shut the door, and sat down on the edge of the tub.
Her hands trembled, and a heavy pressure spread through her chest, making it hard to breathe. Julie—who was Julie? A coworker? Someone casual? A mistress? He’s almost ready to get everything finalized—finalized what? A divorce?
Eleanor sat there hugging herself and, for the first time in years, let herself admit what she had been avoiding: her marriage was over. Maybe it had been over for a long time, and she had just kept performing CPR on it, keeping up the appearance of life. She had clung to habit, to fear of being alone, to memories of when they had been happy.
But happiness had been gone for a long time. For years now they had lived side by side, not together. Like two strangers who happened to share a roof.
Polite breakfast talk, silent dinners, a cold bed where each stayed on their own side, careful not to brush against the other. When was the last time Mark had seemed interested in her life? When was the last time he asked how her day had gone?
When was the last time they had laughed together, made plans, talked about the future? Eleanor didn’t know. Those moments had faded somewhere into the past, like an old photograph left too long in the sun. She sat in that bathroom for twenty minutes, maybe thirty.
And when she came out, her face was calm, almost blank. Mark was sitting in front of the TV, and Eleanor walked past him into the kitchen as if nothing had happened. But inside, something had shifted.
For the first time in years, Eleanor looked at the situation clearly, without illusions. If Mark was preparing for a divorce—and everything pointed that way—then she needed to protect herself. She had heard too many stories from women she knew who walked away from divorce with almost nothing.
Women who, out of decency or naivete, split everything down the middle, even what they had earned themselves. Then they spent years in court trying to get back what should have been theirs, while their ex-husbands’ lawyers moved faster. The next day, on her lunch break, Eleanor took her passport and went to a bank.
Not their usual bank, but another one a few blocks away. She didn’t want to take chances. A young banker with an easy smile led her to his desk.
“I’d like to open a personal account,” Eleanor said, and her voice sounded surprisingly steady. “With a debit card?” he asked. “Yes,” she said. “That’ll take about forty minutes. We’ll need to fill out some forms and sign the paperwork.”
“Would you like to add any other options? Savings account? CD?”
