Instead, she stood beside the iron gate, staring at the electronic keypad as though she had been locked out of her entire life.
Her shoulders were slumped.
Her expression was one I had never wanted to see on the face of the woman I'd loved for nearly four decades.
“Linda?” I called, quickly approaching her. “Honey, why are you standing outside?”
She turned toward me.
One look at her face made my heart sink.
Her eyes were red from crying, and her cheeks were flushed with humiliation.
She seemed reluctant even to look directly at me.
In one hand, she gripped her house keys so tightly that her knuckles had turned white.
In the other was a small paper grocery bag.
I could see a loaf of bread, a carton of milk, and the medication she took for her heart condition.
“Tom,” she said quietly. “Our son changed the gate code.”
I stared at her.
“What are you talking about?”
