“End-of-term chaos,” I lied, avoiding his eyes as I retreated to the bedroom, trying to scrub away the thrill from my skin.
He didn’t argue. He didn’t question further. He simply sat there in the glow of the television.
His silence filled me with guilt—but it also emboldened me. If he wasn’t willing to fight for me, I told myself, why should I fight to stay?
The truth detonated on a quiet weekend. I had told Michael there was a faculty workshop, but instead I went to Lake Addison with Ethan to sketch. We spent hours by the water talking about art, poetry, and how frighteningly short life is.
As evening bruised the sky purple, Ethan reached for my hand. “Susan, I—”
“Mom.”
The word cracked through the air. I turned sharply.
Jake stood about twenty feet away, his face drained of color and tight with a fury that aged him instantly. Beside him was Michael, rigid and silent, like something carved from ice.
My husband’s face was expressionless, but his eyes were razor-sharp. My thoughts vanished. Jake had come home from college to surprise me. When I didn’t answer my phone, he’d convinced Michael to drive him to my “usual places.”
“Home,” Michael said flatly. Then he turned toward the car without checking if I followed.
The ride back felt like a procession to a grave. Jake’s disappointment filled the back seat. Once home, Michael sent him upstairs. Then he sat on the sofa, lit a cigarette—one he had quit years earlier for me—and studied me through the haze.
“How long?” His calm voice terrified me more than shouting would have.
“I’m sorry,” I sobbed, kneeling before him. “I was wrong.”
“I asked how long.”
“Three months,” I whispered. “But it wasn’t physical at first. We just talked.”
“Enough.” He crushed the cigarette. “Two options. We divorce. You leave with nothing, and everyone knows why. Or we stay married—but from now on, we are roommates. Nothing more.”
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