Thomas came home exhausted, yet there was a determined note in his voice as he stopped in the kitchen doorway. Ruth, as always, was busy at the stove, avoiding his gaze. He felt the weight of unspoken words tightening around his throat.
— We need to talk, — he began, leaning against the counter.
She remained silent, but her hands trembled slightly. Without waiting for a response, he blurted out:
— I want a divorce.
Ruth turned slowly. There were no tears in her eyes, only a deep sorrow that seemed to reach her very soul.
— Why? — she asked quietly, as if afraid of the answer.
Thomas shrugged. How could he admit that for months he had been thinking about someone else? That their years together had become a burdensome weight? Instead of answering, he placed the papers on the table.
— The house and the car are yours.
Ruth took the papers and, after a moment, tore them into shreds.
— I don’t need your things, — she whispered. — But I have one condition.
Thomas raised an eyebrow.
— For a month, we pretend to be a family. Our son is preparing for his final exams… — her voice wavered. — And… every morning, you will carry me from the bedroom to the doorstep.
— What? That’s ridiculous! — he muttered, but nodded. *Just a month*, he thought.
The next morning, when he lifted her into his arms, Matthew burst out laughing.
— Dad, you two look like newlyweds! — Ruth leaned into her husband, and her scent—the same as before—suddenly made his head spin.
Day by day, Thomas began to notice the details: her frail shoulders, the dark circles under her eyes, the way she clenched her teeth when she thought no one was looking. One evening, he saw her trying on a dress—it hung on her like a coat hanger.
— You’ve lost a lot of weight, — he said without thinking, touching her hand.
— It’s just stress, — she replied, looking away.
On the last night of the month, Ruth lay in bed, her breathing shallow. Thomas sat on the edge.
— Why didn’t you tell me? — he whispered, gently stroking her cold fingers.
She gave him a faint smile.
— Matthew… had to believe that everything was fine.
When she closed her eyes, the ticket to Venice—the one he had bought *for her*—still lay in his pocket. He tore it apart and threw it into the trash.
Only the neighbors attended the funeral. Matthew, holding his mother’s photograph, asked:
— Why did you leave us, Dad?
Thomas did not answer. He knew that the truth—about the illness, the betrayal, the days when Ruth wrote farewell letters instead of fighting—would remain inside him like a dagger buried deep in his soul.
**Moral:** Love does not die on its own. We let it fade when we stop listening to the beating of hearts.
