Chapter 9: Sunday
He arrived at exactly two o'clock.
I had told him two o'clock.
He was not early, which told me something.
A man fighting for his family arrives early.
A man managing a situation arrives on time.
I opened the door.
He looked tired — genuinely tired, not performed.
There were shadows under his eyes I hadn't seen before.
The children heard his voice and came running.
That part was real and it was hard to watch.
The youngest threw herself at him and he caught her and held on in a way that made my chest ache despite everything.
The older one grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the living room to show him the new car track he'd built.
I made tea and stayed in the kitchen.
After forty minutes, I came to the doorway.
Derek was on the floor with both children, running cars along the track.
He looked up when he heard me.
"Can we talk?" he said.
"After."
"Yes."
The children played for another twenty minutes.
Then I took them upstairs for their nap — a small mercy of timing — and came back down to find Derek sitting at the kitchen table with his hands flat in front of him.
I sat across from him.
"I meant what I said," he started.
"It's over.
I ended it."
"I heard you."
"I know that doesn't fix anything.
I'm not saying it does.
I just—" He stopped.
Started again.
"I don't have a good reason.
I've been trying to find one and I can't.
Things felt hard and I made a terrible choice and I kept making it for five months and I told myself it was because we'd grown apart but that was a lie I told myself so I didn't have to feel like the person I actually was."
I watched him.
"That's the most honest thing you've said to me in months," I said.
He looked up.
"I know."
"Why now?
Why honest now, when it's already done?"
"Because you're not shouting," he said.
"You're not crying.
You're just — looking at me.
And it's worse than if you were shouting."
I thought about that.
"Derek, I need to ask you something and I need a real answer."
"Okay."
"The email.
*She's been sick.
It's actually easier right now.* Did you mean that?"
His jaw tightened.
He looked at the table.
"In the moment," he said.
"I'm ashamed of it.
But in the moment — yes."
The kitchen was very quiet.
"Okay," I said.
"Okay?"
"I needed to know if you'd lie about it.
You didn't." I folded my hands.
"That matters.
It doesn't undo it.
But it matters."
He looked at me with something I couldn't quite name.
Relief, maybe.
Or grief.
"What happens now?" he asked.
"I don't know yet," I said.
"I'm not ready to make permanent decisions.
I need time.
I need to see who you actually are when there's nothing left to manage."
"And the kids?"
"The kids need their father.
I'm not going to take that from them.
But I need you to understand something." I leaned forward slightly.
"If you ever — ever — speak to me the way you did last week again.
The pharmacy.
*You don't do anything.* *No other man would put up with a sick wife.* If I ever hear words like that from you again, we are done.
Completely.
No conversation.
Done."
He held my gaze.
"Understood."
"I mean it."
"I know you do." He paused.
"I knew it when you hired the cleaning service.
I knew it when Linda was standing in our doorway and you didn't flinch." He looked down.
"I think I've known for a while that I married someone stronger than I gave her credit for."
I didn't respond to that.
"Go say goodbye to the kids," I said.
"They'll be up from their nap in about twenty minutes."
He nodded and stood.
At the doorway he stopped.
"Can I ask — the lawyer.
Are you still—"
"I'm keeping that appointment," I said.
"Whatever we decide, I'm keeping that appointment.
I need to know what my options are.
That doesn't go away."
He nodded slowly.
"That's fair."
May you like
"Yes," I said.
"It is."
