September 5, Saturday
WHEN I arrived for my scheduled call with Warren, a stranger in a windbreaker stood at the back wall instead of Deputy Wells. An unexpected little jolt of disappointment barbed through my chest, then I reasoned at least he wouldn’t have to witness more histrionics regarding my aborted marriage.
The substitute was competent-looking, thick through the shoulders. But he wasn't Wells, and the room felt oddly unbalanced without him in it, the way a piece of furniture being moved throws off a room until you get used to it.
"You there?" Warren's irritated (and irritating) voice pulled me back to the screen. He was buttoning a shirt I didn't recognize, dark, expensive-looking, the kind of thing he never used to own.
"I'm here. Sorry."
"Heidi's got us reservations at that new rooftop place, then we're meeting people out." He smoothed a hand over his hair, then adjusted his collar. "Can't be late."
"Big night, huh?"
"It's Saturday." Said like that answered something.
I couldn't remember the last time he and I'd had a "big night" on a Saturday, unless you counted surfing Netflix and bickering about the rise in homeowner's association fees.
I asked about the kids, and he gave a dismissive wave. "They're fine. Josh is at a friend's. Lily's got cheer stuff." He glanced at his watch. "They're teenagers, Isabel, not toddlers. You gotta give them a little room to breathe…"
My mind wandered to where Deputy Wells was tonight. He obviously had a life waiting for him somewhere outside the courthouse. Maybe his band was playing somewhere tonight, or maybe he had a hot date. Or maybe—
"Isabel?"
I forced myself back. "Yes… I'm listening."
He frowned. "You never listen to me—that's why we're not together anymore."
I frowned back. "Try to be around more for the kids. Take Josh to soccer practice. Sit with Lily while she does her homework, even if she doesn't want you to. Show them how to do a load of laundry, for God's sake. You won't get this time back."
He gave a little laugh. "That's a hell of a thing to say to me right now."
"I mean it kindly."
"You're not here and you're lecturing me about being present?"
"It's not the same thing. I didn't choose this."
"Sure you didn't." He reached for something off-screen, a jacket, his keys. "I gotta go. Heidi's waiting."
"Warren, wait—"
The call ended—the equivalent of him walking out the door the day he announced he wanted a divorce. In my mind I could still hear the bang of the door, like an exclamation point.
My time wasn't up so I sat there a while, trying to pinpoint the month or year when Warren had stopped being the father who built blanket forts with Josh on the living room floor, who carried Lily around on his shoulders until her legs were too long for it.
Somewhere between then and now he'd become a man who measured his children's needs against dinner reservations.
But sitting there in the quiet of the stuffy conference room, his last words still hung in the air, the accusation that I'd also chosen something over my children.
And hadn't I?
Maybe it wasn't as simple as him being the failure and me being the sacrifice.