Chapter 10
Twenty-five minutes later, he returned with a box.
He had bought two blueberry muffins.
One almond croissant.
One cinnamon roll.
He pushed the roll toward me.
“I remembered.”
“You remembered what you used to eat.”
His smile disappeared.
He looked down.
I had not meant to be cruel.
But the truth was sitting between us.
Daniel remembered the woman I had been twenty years earlier.
He had stopped being curious about the woman I had become.
“I don’t really like cinnamon rolls anymore,” I said quietly.
“What do you like now?”
The question hung there.
I realized I had no immediate answer.
Not about pastries.
Not about marriage.
Not about much of anything.
For years, my preferences had been whatever made family life easiest.
Maybe that was part of what I needed to learn next.
“I’m figuring that out,” I said.
Chapter 3: Sunday without him
Melissa disappeared from Daniel’s phone.
At least as far as I could tell.
I never checked.
That surprised Daniel.
One night, he left his phone beside me on the couch before going upstairs.
Screen up.
Unlocked.
A gesture so obvious it might as well have included a sign reading PLEASE NOTICE MY TRANSPARENCY.
I continued reading my book.
When he returned, he looked at the phone.
Then at me.
“You didn’t look.”
“No.”
“You can if you want.”
“I don’t want to.”
“I have nothing to hide.”
“I’m glad.”
He sat down.
“You really don’t care?”
There was hurt in his voice.
That hurt irritated me more than anger would have.
“Daniel, you don’t get to cheat on me and then feel rejected because I’m not enthusiastic about inspecting your phone.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“What did you mean?”
He struggled.
Finally he said, “You used to care where I was.”
I closed my book.
“I cared because I trusted that knowing where you were meant knowing something true.”
He went silent.
I softened slightly.
“I’m not trying to punish you.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“Living.”
“Without me.”
“For now, beside you.”
“That’s worse.”
I believed him.
Physical absence is clear.
Emotional absence leaves furniture behind.
Three weeks after Mom’s birthday, I met with a divorce attorney.
Her office was above a pharmacy, not behind marble columns.
Her name was Patricia Cole.
She wore reading glasses on a silver chain and asked practical questions.
Mortgage.
Retirement accounts.
Health insurance.
Lily’s college savings.