Chapter 9
His hand stopped halfway.
“Claire, I never wanted to hurt you.”
I looked at his outstretched fingers.
“But you knew you were hurting me.”
He slowly withdrew his hand.
Those two things were different.
And for the first time, I thought he understood.
“I made mistakes,” he said.
I shook my head.
“Leaving your keys in the car is a mistake. Forgetting an anniversary is a mistake. You had a nine-month relationship with another woman and then told our children our marriage was already dead so you wouldn't have to explain what you'd done.”
His jaw tightened.
“You don't know everything that was happening between us.”
“Then tell me.”
He looked surprised.
I waited.
“Tell me what was so wrong with our marriage that you couldn't talk to me before starting another relationship.”
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Looked toward the fireplace.
Finally, he said, “I felt invisible.”
I almost laughed.
But then I realized he meant it.
“I came home every night,” he continued. “Everything was about the children, the house, the bills. We barely talked anymore.”
“We talked.”
“About logistics, Claire.”
I absorbed that.
Because there was truth in part of what he was saying.
We had become efficient partners in a household rather than attentive partners in a marriage.
We had spent years discussing who needed a ride, what needed fixing, and which relatives were visiting.
We had stopped asking each other who we were becoming.
But that was not something he'd experienced alone.
“Daniel,” I said, “I was lonely too.”
He looked at me.
“I spent years waiting for you to notice me. I asked you to go to dinner. I asked you to take trips. I asked you to come walking with me after work.”
He lowered his gaze.
“You were tired. You were busy. You said we'd do it another time.”
“I know.”
“And eventually I stopped asking.”
His eyes filled.
I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen Daniel cry.
But I wasn't finished.
“The difference is that when I was lonely, I tried to reach you. When you were lonely, you found someone else.”
He pressed his lips together.
Then he whispered, “I'm sorry.”
I had imagined hearing those words for months.
Sometimes I pictured myself breaking down.
Sometimes I imagined forgiving him instantly.
Sometimes I dreamed of saying something so devastating that he would finally understand what he'd done.
But sitting there, I felt something quieter.