Chapter 6
Chris
I sit at the head of the dining table, watching the steam rise from my mother's porcelain teacup as she sits at the opposite end.
The sky outside is a bruised gray; I drove over to her estate before dawn even broke.
I chew on a piece of toasted bread, but the food tastes sour in my mouth, making it difficult to swallow.
"And so you thought that the first place she would run to is my house?" Greta asks, setting her cup down with a controlled click.
"Yes."
"You know that your wife and I were never the best of friends," Mother says, her voice steady.
I keep my eyes lowered. "Yes, I know. You were always much closer to Sarai."
"Yes, I was much closer to her, because we share a loss."
I offer a small nod, the weight of that shared grief hanging in the space between us. "She left, Mother," I tell her, the words tasting like lead on my tongue.
"Why do you think she left?"
"I don't know, really. I can't think of one single thing I did to cause her to leave."
Mother let out a sharp click of her tongue. I lift my gaze just in time to catch her nodding to herself.
"From your response, I think I would have left you too.
" She stands up, the silk of her skirt rustling.
With a simple snap of her fingers, a group of staff members quietly approaches the table to clear away the untouched plates.
"It has been a while since I stretched these bones, you see. Come, come walk with me."
She extends her right hand, her palm flat in an unspoken expectation for me to assist her.
I slide back my chair, walk over to the other side of the dining room, and take her hand in mine.
I tuck her arm securely under my elbow so she can anchor her weight against me as we step out onto the terrace.
***
"I don't like her background, that is for sure, but I know she is not a gold digger," Mother says as we take a slow turn into the path of her luscious garden.
The morning air smells of damp earth and crushed pine.
"But she has been a good wife to you. She has been the best when it comes to being a mother, and she is making a whole lot of money on her own. "
I suspect she is heading toward a specific point, so I keep my mouth shut and listen to the crunch of gravel beneath our shoes.
"When she presumably left, where were you?"
"I went to an event."
"Did you leave with Sarai?"
"Yes. She said she needed help with a plus one."
Mother nods, her jaw tightening. "You know the morning I came over to your house for breakfast?"
"Yes, I remember."
"I felt embarrassed for your wife. And then I began to imagine myself in her shoes.
" She abrupt halts, her feet digging into a soft patch of grass, forcing me to stand still alongside her.
She pulls her arm free from my grasp, turning her torso to face me fully.
"For eight years, you have mourned your brother. Did you ever tell Zoe how he died?"
I swallow hard against the tightness in my throat, shaking my head.
"Did you tell her that you had an argument with him right before he died?"
I look at the grass by her shoes. "No."
Mother nods once, a decisive movement. "I will get a therapist for you. And you cannot say no to this."
I offer a tight nod, knowing better than to argue.
"Because I will tell you what," she continues, her eyes locking onto mine. "Your wife got tired of always being invisible in her own house. When she told me you missed your anniversary five times, I was bamboozled."
I nod again, having absolutely nothing left to say in my own defense.
"You made her feel like an outcast, Chris."
"I can't have done that," I protest, the words slipping out rough and desperate. "I love—"
"That is the thing with men," she cuts me off, her hand waving through the air between us. "You loving me does not transcribe to you showing me that you actually do love me."
She walks over to a stone bench where her gardening tools are laid out.
She picks up a pair of leather pruning shears to protect against the thorns, reaches into a bush, and plucks a pale rose.
She passes the stem to me. She reaches back in to try plucking another one, but I don't move to help her, knowing she prefers to handle the garden without interference.
"But I won't tell you why you are wrong," she says, snipping a second stem. "Because the better apology comes from knowing and understanding your fault firsthand."
"But I want her to come back, Mother."
"Newsflash. I don't think she will come back if you don't work for it."
"What do you mean by that?"
She hands me the second flower, her brow furrowing as she looks at my face. "You know what? You annoy me."
I blink, caught off guard.
"The fact that you don't understand what I mean is all the more reason why I shouldn't tell you," she says, setting the shears back down on the stone bench.
"You will go to therapy. Then you can keep calling her.
Try to see if she will pick up, though I doubt she will since she blocked your number. "
She steps closer, looking me dead in the eye.
"Then clearly trace your steps. Find out exactly where you hurt her. You know your wife, Chris. You know Zoe. You know she can't just up and leave without a reason. Even I know how in love you guys are with each other."
She turns back toward the house, her pace brisk. "Go home and think. And I think I'll get the therapist to come straight to your house."
"I understand," I murmur, following her shadow.
"A piece of advice," she adds over her shoulder as we reach the terrace doors.
"I'm listening."
"Make sure Sarai is not there when you are doing any one of your sessions. I am yet to find out if Zoe's claim about her is correct."
***
I lied when I told my mother I didn’t think I had done anything to provoke Zoe.
The truth is, I just didn’t believe whatever I did was severe enough to make her pack her entire life into boxes and walk away.
Even now, sitting alone in the quiet expanse of our bedroom, my mind struggles to grasp the true weight of my wrongdoing.
I have already dialed the kids. Lizzy was the first I reached, but the moment she answered, the cold distance in her voice made it clear that she is firmly on her mother’s side.
Everyone is. Rightfully so, I suppose. Who wouldn’t take Zoe’s side?
Even I am on her side at this point, despite the fact that I do not fully comprehend the exact breaking point that drove her out.
Then, her parting words echo through the empty room, cutting through my thoughts.
Do you remember when you told me I would always come first?
I nod to the empty space, my eyelids squeezing shut against a sudden, violent wave of regret. I ask myself the question point-blank: When did I ever fail to put the love of my life first?
A memory fractures the darkness in my mind, flashing with vivid clarity.
I remember her coming home from the hospital, stepping through the front door with her sister, Maya.
Zoe had stopped in the foyer, her gaze lowering to where I sat on the couch, smiling down at Sarai’s newborn child.
Maya had looked directly at me and Sarai, her expression hardening as she rolled her eyes without restraint.
"At least show up for the delivery," Maya had snapped, her voice trembling with a protective fury. "She still remains your wife, Chris."
I remember the way Zoe had simply reached out, patting her sister’s forearm in a quiet plea. "Forget it, Maya," she had whispered. Her voice had sounded parched, completely dry of life, as if she had already fought the battle in her head and accepted defeat.
I hadn’t been able to move. I had frozen on the cushions, keeping my eyes closed for a long moment, waiting for the burning weight of shame to pass before I found the strength to stand up and walk over to her.
Having no words to offer, no defense to mount, I had simply reached out to take our child from her arms, pulling Zoe tight against my chest. I had pressed my forehead firmly against hers, the heat of her skin making my own tremble.
"I'm so sorry, baby," I had whispered against her lips. "I promise I..."
I had paused right there. There was no sort of excuse I could formulate that would ever justify my actions.
"Forgive me for my selfishness," I had muttered.
Because I knew the truth even then. The reason I stayed by Sarai’s side while my own wife labored was pure selfishness.
I wanted to satiate the lingering guilt of my brother's death, and in doing so, I entirely forgot the happiness of the woman who holds my life in her hands.
Literally. I cannot function properly when she isn't around me.
Already, the lack of sleep is making me grumpy.
I find myself snapping at the smallest inconveniences, my thoughts muddy and confused.
Sitting on the edge of the mattress, I reach across the sheets and pull her pillow into my lap, burying my face in the fabric.
I inhale deeply, catching the faint, lingering trace of her lavender scent.
"Oh, I miss you," I confess into the plush fabric.
When was the last time you told her this?
The silent question speaks directly into my ear, and for the love of God, I cannot remember the answer.
I stand up abruptly, my legs pacing the floor as my brain drags up more words she has spoken in anger—words I dismissed as mere mood swings at the time.
Her voice echoes in the corners of the bedroom again.
She says something, and you never care to check in with me. She wants something that I needed first, and you never care to come to me.
The memory of her face as she said it hits me, and I instantly cover my face with both palms, hiding from the phantom gaze of my wife. It is Sarai. I shake my head, the reality settling into my bones. I know exactly why it always looked as though I tended to put Sarai first.
Then, my mother's warning returns to haunt me: Because the better apology comes from knowing and understanding your fault firsthand.
I know the fault involves Sarai, but the true depth of it eludes my grasp. Just how deeply did I hurt her?
"Mom was right," I mutter into my open palms, dropping my hands to my sides. "I do need therapy."
If I want her back, a simple text won't suffice. I need to show her the reality of my remorse. I need to show her that I love her, and I need to become the husband I used to be—someone who actually sticks to the sacred promise of always keeping her first.