It was early morning and the daylight was peeking in the living room through the small window. There were no drapes to cover it and anybody who came, could see inside before knocking at the door. I had to fix that.
I felt rested, but weak, a sign that I had to make some chicken soup. Not so usual among my friends, but among my family where mom and grandmas tried to cure their sick loved ones with chicken soup. That was their first resort after praying to God for healing. I learned to do the same. At least about soup. It didn’t matter if it was summer, chicken soup with vegetables usually took away the weakness and put me back on my feet.
I looked at my phone. He didn’t send me a message. I hoped a night-sleep would change something in his heart, but it seemed it didn’t. He accused me of marrying him for money, and deep inside me I knew it was true. In the beginning I needed someone to talk to and go places. I had had only one man in my life and after breaking up I was a divorcee for many years until I met him. But re-marrying at the age of 60 wasn’t the best idea. Everybody told me that. We were not compatible. Didn’t have much in common. He needed a servant and I needed a companion who took care of everything for me.
When he placed the prenuptial agreement in front of me, I wanted to back off.
“Don’t worry, Sophie. This is not for us, it is for my daughter. She keeps telling me you are after my money.”
It was a moment of embarrassment for me. I knew that if he would have nothing, I wouldn’t have married him. But I couldn’t tell him that. Nobody knew.
“Do you love him?” Adam asked me when I gave him the news.
“I will. It is a friendship that will evolve in love,” I tried to lie to myself.
Now, after a year of compromise I was ashamed of myself.