The letter lay where she had left it on the table, address side down, yawning like a bored professor during a student presentation.
“You opened it,” said her husband, hands folded neatly on the table in front of him.
Leant against the sink she studied him. Her mother had warned her things might end badly, that at some point there might be another woman, or drink or gambling, nothing like this though.
“How long?” she whispered as he picked up the envelope and pulled out the slip of paper within.
“Three months,” he said, re folding the page despite its already crisp lines, “four, the doctor said, if I’m optimistic.”