For Doug’s birthday, I made his favorite meal, spaghetti with meatballs and spicy Italian sausages, fresh tomato and basil, and just a teaspoon of sugar to sweeten the acidity. I cooked it for several hours over slow heat, checking every few minutes and giving the sauce a quick stir with a wooden spoon. When it was time to eat, I drained the pasta, transferred it to individual bowls, and slathered everything generously with sauce, meat, and freshly grated parmesan.

We each had a glass of very fine Chianti and too many slices of baguette dipped in olive oil, and could barely move from the table. It was, in his words, a meal to make a Neapolitan weep. He washed the dishes, wiped down the table, and poured us each another glass of wine.

And then he told me he was leaving me. At first, I thought he was kidding. But when I saw the expression on his face, I knew it was no joke.

“Why?” I said.

“I met someone.”

“Who?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”

He sighed and looked away.

“I met her in Boston.”

“Boston? That was months ago.”

Silence.

“You’ve been seeing someone all this time, and I never had a clue. Wow.”

I was in shock, and the totality of the situation was beyond my scope of understanding. That would come later.

“I never meant for it to happen. I love you,” he said.

He reached a hand out to mine. I pulled away. He looked like a little boy who had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. I used to think his boyishness was cute. No more.

“I’ll sleep on the couch tonight,” he said.

“No. You’ll leave. I don’t want you here. Go sleep on her couch.”

He seemed surprised but eventually stood up, shoulders slumped, and plodded off to the bedroom, presumably to pack a bag. Presumably, to show up on her doorstep. I thought I’d never get to sleep that night, but instead, I slept soundly, sprawled across the width of the bed, not worrying about crowding the man who was no longer there. I was too numb to cry, too exhausted to have a plan. When I woke up, for a few seconds, life felt normal until reality set in. I am not one to wallow. I went about my morning as usual, making one less cup of coffee and watching the news alone. I finished my coffee, showered, and got dressed. Still no tears, still no plan.

Before I left for work, I dumped the leftover pasta in the trash. I doubted I would ever eat pasta again.