Chapter 12
“There has to be something.”
“Why?”
“Because marriages can be fixed.”
“Sometimes.”
“We were happy.”
“We were.”
“I love you.”
“I believe you.”
He stared at me.
“Why does that sound like bad news?”
“Because love wasn’t the only thing missing.”
“What else?”
I looked at him.
“Attention.”
“I paid attention to you.”
“When was my last doctor’s appointment?”
He blinked.
“What?”
“When did I last go to the doctor?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who’s my closest friend at work?”
“Amy?”
“Yes. What’s her husband’s name?”
He frowned.
“That’s not fair.”
“Okay. What book am I reading?”
He glanced toward the house.
“That blue one?”
I nearly smiled.
“What did I want to do for our anniversary last year?”
Daniel opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
“What did I eventually stop asking you to do?”
His face changed.
Because he remembered that one.
Dance lessons.
For six years, every January when community classes opened, I suggested beginner swing dancing.
Daniel always laughed.
“You know I hate dancing.”
Eventually, I stopped asking.
“I know those seem like little things,” I said.
“They’re not.”
“No. They’re not.”
He looked toward the driveway.
“I thought you were happy.”
“I thought I was too.”
That was true.
Happiness can become a habit just like unhappiness.
You keep answering fine because nothing is actively burning.
You mistake functionality for intimacy.
You tell yourself everyone is tired.
Everyone is busy.
Every marriage changes.
Then one day your husband sleeps with another woman, and suddenly you realize the affair did not create the distance.
It exposed it.
“Melissa made me feel…” Daniel stopped.
I waited.
“Important.”
There it was.
The sentence wives are supposed to hate.
Instead, I felt strangely calm.
“Did I make you feel unimportant?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“She asked about work. She thought what I did was interesting.”
“I asked about work for fifteen years.”
“I know.”
“When did you stop telling me?”
He looked at me.
That landed.
For years, Daniel came home with stories.
The ridiculous contractor.
The difficult client.
The promotion rumor.
The warehouse mistake.
Then he gradually stopped.
Not because I stopped listening.
Because his attention moved elsewhere.
“You stopped bringing your life home,” I said. “Then you blamed home for not containing it.”
Daniel covered his face.
I had never seen him cry before except at funerals.
He cried then.
Quietly.
I sat six feet away.
I did not touch him.