Chapter 10: What We Owe Each Other
Michael had made dinner.
I noticed it the moment I opened the door — something warm and slow-cooked, the smell of it reaching into the hallway.
The table was set.
Candles, which we hadn't used in years.
The good plates.
He appeared in the kitchen doorway looking uncertain.
"I didn't know when you'd be back.
I kept it on low."
"Thank you." I set my bag down.
"I'm not ready to talk tonight.
I want to eat and then I want to sleep."
"All right." He retreated without pushing.
We ate mostly in silence.
The food was good.
It had always been one of his genuine things — cooking on a Sunday, slow-braised something, bread from the bakery on the corner.
I had always loved it.
I still loved it.
That hadn't changed, which was one of the complicated parts.
After we cleared up, I sat down in the armchair by the window — the one I'd always thought of as mine — and he sat on the sofa across the room, and I told him, briefly, that Rachel and I had talked and that it had gone well.
He asked nothing.
I appreciated that.
"She's not what I expected," I said.
"She's very — settled.
At peace with herself.
She's done the hard work of being fine on her own and you can see it in her."
He nodded.
"She's also not angry," I said.
"Not at me.
Not really at you, either.
Though I think you don't deserve to be let off that easily."
"I don't disagree."
"Your daughter is studying nursing," I said.
He went very still.
"She is?"
"Second year.
She wants to work in cardiac care." I paused.
"Given what's happened with Rachel's health, that probably means something."
He pressed his hand over his mouth for a moment.
"You have a daughter who is studying to take care of people's hearts," I said, "while you spent twenty years failing to take care of anyone's.
Including your own."
He looked at the floor.
"She's willing to meet again," I said.
"Slowly.
On her terms."
"I know.
She texted me." He looked up.
"An hour ago.
She said—" His voice broke slightly.
He steadied it.
"She said she didn't forgive me yet.
But she was willing to find out if there was something worth knowing."
That sounded exactly like Clara.
"Then don't waste it," I said.
"Whatever she offers you, don't waste it."
"I won't."
We sat quietly.
The candles had burned down to stubs.
The street outside was dark and still.
"I have an appointment with Dr.
Wilson next week," I said.
"To go over the cyst results properly and decide on next steps."
"I'll come."
"Yes.
You will." I looked at him.
"And after that, you're making your own appointment.
With a doctor and with a therapist.
I'll be checking."
"I know." A small and painful attempt at a smile.
"I expected nothing less."
I looked at my hands in my lap.
The ring was still there.
I had looked at it twice that morning, turning it, thinking.
I hadn't taken it off.
I also hadn't decided what that meant yet.
"I'm not telling you tonight what happens to this marriage," I said.
"I need more time than two days.
I need to see what honesty looks like from you over weeks and months.
I need to see what you do, not what you promise."
"That's completely fair."
"And Michael." I waited until he looked at me directly.
"If you ever — ever — decide again that there is something I can't handle and choose to protect yourself by hiding it from me, I will not give you another conversation.
I will simply leave."
He held my gaze.
"I understand."
"Good."
I stood up.
I went to bed.
May you like
He stayed on the sofa until well past midnight — I heard him moving, eventually, slow and quiet through the dark house, as if he were trying not to disturb something fragile.
He was right to be careful.
