Part One: The Card in the Cookie Tin
The morning Gerald finally left was, from start to finish, an exercise in calculated coldness. He’d already lined his leather suitcases up beside the front door like a man heading out on an ordinary business trip, not a man closing the book on fifty full years of shared life. I sat at our kitchen table holding my chipped blue teacup when he slid the bank card across the surface toward me, jaw set tight, telling me flatly it was there for emergencies only.
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