“Your coworker?”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting, Greta.”
The front door opened.
“Mom? Dad?” Hanna, my daughter, called. “We brought groceries.”
She entered carrying two paper bags. Steven, my son, followed with bottled water.
They stopped when they saw the pills scattered near my feet.
“That isn’t an answer.”
“What happened?” Hanna asked.
Robert sat down and let his shoulders sag.
“I need to tell you something.”
“Robert,” I warned.
He looked at our children.
“Your mother can’t handle what’s coming.”
“What happened?”
Steven set down the water.
“What does that mean?”
“It means she wants a divorce.”
Hanna’s grocery bag slipped. An apple rolled across the floor and stopped beside the pill in my hand.