I never knew silence could sound cruel until my husband started using it to leave me. The day I had my stroke, Daniel and I were arguing about the dishwasher.
“It makes that awful grinding sound every time you run it,” he said from the kitchen.
I was pouring coffee. “That’s because you keep shoving pans in there like you’re loading a cement truck.”
He gave me that half-smile. “That is slander.”
I tried to say, “Damn it,” but the words came out wrong. Thick. Slow. My mouth wouldn’t obey me. Then my right leg buckled, and the floor rushed up.
Daniel was beside me in a second. “Rachel? Rachel, look at me.”
I tried.