For twelve years, Valerie knew her husband was sleeping with another woman, and even so, she served him coffee, ironed his shirts, and cared for him when cancer left him nothing but bones. But the night he was going to die, she leaned into his ear and whispered: “Robert, your punishment is just beginning…”

—”Robert, your punishment is just beginning…”

He opened his eyes in terror.

Not because of death.

Because he understood that Valerie wasn’t talking about hell.

She was talking about his children.

The monitor continued beeping softly, indifferent. Outside, the rain battered the windows of Northwestern Memorial as if all of Chicago were washing away an old stain.