The Last Goodbye

The terminal cancer diagnosis came on a Tuesday, same day Sarah's golden retriever, Buster, finally stopped eating. Two deaths in one household, she thought, pouring herself a third glass of wine. The dog looked at her with milky eyes, patient as always, while she stared at the biopsy report like it might somehow rearrange itself into something less permanent.

Her husband Mark had been working late again. "Crunch time at the firm," he'd said that morning, adjusting his tie in the hallway mirror. But Sarah had noticed the new cologne—woodsy and expensive, not his usual citrus. She'd noticed too how his phone stayed face-down on the counter, how he'd started taking calls in the garage.

Six months earlier, she'd hired a private detective. A woman named Elena, sharp-eyed and cynical, with a fox-like face that aged whenever she smiled. Elena had followed Mark for three weeks, documenting his meetings with someone from a competitor's company. Corporate espionage. Infidelity. Somehow both felt worse together.

Now Sarah sat at the kitchen table, Buster's head resting on her foot, and considered her options. She could confront him. Could file for divorce, leave him with nothing but his secrets and his sudden promotion. Or she could say nothing, let him believe he'd gotten away with it, let him bear the weight of her death thinking he was safe.

The dog whined softly. Sarah ran her fingers through his coat, already thinning with age. They were all getting old, weren't they? Even betrayals aged. Even lies.

She heard Mark's key in the lock. Quickly, she folded the biopsy report, hid it beneath the mail, and poured a fourth glass of wine. Buster lifted his head, tail thumping once against the chair leg.

"Rough day?" Mark asked, setting his briefcase by the door. He didn't look at her. He never really looked at her anymore.

"You could say that," Sarah said, and watched him walk away, already gone.