May we live to 103

There's a greater than zero chance he'll be shot in bed by a jealous lover.

It's a tongue in cheek toast I've heard a thousand times in a hundred different Irish pubs, and I've often thought it wouldn't be a bad way to go. As I recall, the whole saying is "May we live to be 103 and die in our sleep, shot in bed by a jealous lover." The age varies, but the spirit is the same: geriatric and still scrompin'.

He isn't geriatric, but he's sure as hell scrompin'.

I noticed he was acting suspiciously a couple of months ago. The man who didn't even have a smartphone until work made him, the man who wouldn't text if his life depended on it, was glued to his black mirror that last time I saw him.

"I think he has a girlfriend," she confided out of the blue. I don't call as often as I should, and we went from discussing what was for dinner to this bombshell. There was no preamble, no smooth segue, no transition.

"What makes you think that?" I asked, carefully neutral. I did not share my suspicions or observations. What if she's right? What if she's wrong? What if she's right and decides not to do anything about it? I know better than to disturb marital bliss. Domestic disputes often turn against those in their orbit, and I'm trying to stay unscathed.

"I found pictures and messages." Ahh. Can't argue with that. "But the next day, after I saved them, they were gone."

"Did you actually save them?"

"I don't know. My mind is gone, you know that." It's true. I do. It is. But not all of it.

"So what's your next move?"

"I confronted him about it. I asked him to please just stop and love me for the time I have left."

She has maybe three years. Probably less. Definitely less with a broken heart.

"What did he say?"

"He denied everything. Said I was delusional. And it's possible I am."

"What is your end game? Your goal?"

"I want to be loved. Cared for. I just want him to keep his promise."

I do, too. I understand she's hard to live with, God knows I don't want to live with her, but it looks like I'll have to sooner than later. She isn't the woman I once knew, but she is still the woman who has known me my whole life. We used to be friends, and I miss those days. She never stopped being the parent, but for those few years of my early adulthood, we genuinely liked each other in addition to the familial love.

I'm not sure we like each other so much anymore.

"Mom, I got you. Tell me what you need me to do."

She cries, and it's the first time I've heard her sob since her sister died. Even then, it was the loss of a sibling more than the loss of the person her sibling was that sparked her grief.

"Nothing yet. Nothing yet. Don't be angry at him, don't treat him any differently. I had to tell somebody. I'm not sure I can live through this, and I'm not sure he will, either." She takes a breath, sighs. I hear so much sadness. "If he cuts it off, I can forgive him."

I can, too. She can't hear me nod, but I assure her. "I get it. I understand, and I'm here if you need me. You have to make the choices that are best for you, and I don't judge you for them."

"I'm not ready to go yet," she says, no longer crying. "But the years ahead of me aren't looking like ones I want, anyway."

Her husband should consider staying home, or that house might become a tomb.

I hope not.

I'm not sure what's scarier: the fact that murder might happen, or the fact that I'm not horrified that it may.