At 72, my husband took the house, the car, and every dollar he could put his name on—then told me there were “facilities” for women like me. What he forgot was one old brass key in my purse. By the time he found out what it opened, all the certainty had left his face.
By the time the movers carried out the cedar chest from the front hall, Margaret Hail understood that her marriage was truly over. Not because of the court papers. Not because of the attorney’s clipped voice on the phone. Not even because her husband of forty-eight years had stopped sleeping in their bedroom three months…
