“What would you prefer?”
“I don’t know.
Yell.
Get angry.
Act like you actually care.”
I almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because it was absurd.
Fourteen years of marriage, and apparently heartbreak needed to be performed loudly enough to satisfy the person causing it.
“When did it start?”
Claire’s jaw tightened.
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“Three months ago.”
That was the first lie.
I know because Claire scratched the inside of her wrist when she lied.
She had done it since we met.
She scratched twice.
I noticed.
I noticed everything.
I simply hadn’t wanted to.
“He makes me feel alive,” she said.
There it was.
The sentence people use when they want desire to sound philosophical.
Claire began pacing.
“You come home from work.
You shower.
You watch the news.
Sometimes you read in the garage.
Then you go to bed.
We don’t travel.
We don’t dance.
We don’t do anything spontaneous.”
“I asked you to go to Yellowstone last summer.”
She waved her hand.
“That isn’t the point.”
“You said you didn’t want to waste vacation days.”
“Exactly.
You always make everything practical.”
I studied her.
She had once loved that about me.
When the furnace died during our first winter, practical had been reassuring.
When her father needed surgery and insurance refused part of the claim, practical had been useful.
When she lost her job during the pandemic and cried at the dining room table because she thought we would lose the house, practical had paid the mortgage.
But people often rename virtues once they stop loving the person who possesses them.
Dependable becomes boring.
Careful becomes cowardly.
Quiet becomes weak.
“I want a divorce,” Claire said.
I nodded.
Her eyes widened.
“That’s it?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know!”
“You already chose.”
She stared at me.
Maybe she expected me to beg.
That disturbed me more than the affair.
“Have your lawyer send the paperwork,” I said.
I walked upstairs.
Twenty minutes later I came down carrying one duffel bag.
Claire stood in the kitchen.
“You’re actually leaving?”
“You asked me to.”
“This is your house too.”
“I know.”
Her expression hardened.
“Derek says you’ll try to take half.”
I stopped.
And there it was.
Money.
It always arrives eventually.
“The house is marital property,” I said.
“We split the equity.”
