Chapter 9
He came downstairs wearing a white dress shirt.
“Did you pick up my navy suit?”
I was reading at the kitchen table.
“No.”
He frowned.
“You said you were going to the cleaners.”
“I picked up my things.”
“My suit was there.”
“Yes.”
“So why didn’t you bring it?”
I looked at him.
“Because it’s yours.”
His face changed.
Not anger exactly.
Confusion.
“But you were already there.”
“Yes.”
“Claire, that makes no sense.”
“It makes perfect sense.”
I returned to my book.
He stood there for several seconds.
A year earlier, that interaction would have bothered me all day.
Was I being mean?
Was I becoming petty?
Should I have picked up the suit just to keep peace?
Now I saw the deeper problem.
Daniel had mistaken my care for a service that would continue independently of how he treated me.
The following Saturday, he left around six.
He stood near the front door adjusting his jacket.
“I’m meeting some people.”
I was on the couch with Emma, choosing a movie.
“Okay.”
He waited.
I kept scrolling.
“Probably be late.”
“Okay.”
More silence.
Daniel said, “We’re going to Dublin.”
I looked up.
He wanted me to ask who “we” meant.
I could see it.
He had volunteered information I had not requested because my indifference made him uncomfortable.
“Have fun,” I said.
Emma pressed her lips together.
Daniel stared at me.
Then he left.
The moment the door closed, Emma exhaled.
“That was weird.”
I smiled slightly.
“What?”
“He wanted you to ask.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
I thought about it.
“Because when I asked questions, he could tell himself I was jealous.”
“And now?”
“Now he has to wonder why I’m not.”
Emma was quiet.
Then she said something I still remember.
“Mom, are you done?”
I looked at her.
Children, even adult ones, notice emotional truth faster than we think.
I could have lied.
Instead I said, “I think so.”
Her eyes filled.
Not because she wanted us together.
Because endings are sad even when they are necessary.
She reached across the couch and took my hand.
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I.”
That was all we said.
The next morning, I woke before seven.
I made coffee.
Emma slept upstairs.
Daniel had not come home.
I stood at the counter holding his favorite mug.
It was dark blue with a chipped handle.
Emma had given it to him for Father’s Day when she was nine.