The Ninety-Ninth Time He Broke My Heart

My husband, heir to the Falcone bloodline, had carried a bad stomach the way other men carry old bullet wounds — for years, quietly, until it dropped him. This time it landed him in the private wing for the ninety-ninth time, all because he'd eaten off some back-alley cart with his little errand-girl.

This time, I didn't do what I always did. I didn't rise before dawn and carry in the healing broth I'd simmered five hours over the stove, the way a soldier's wife carries in what keeps a man breathing.

Instead, I just called for takeout.