Chapter 2
Two
Caroline
That night, I didn’t sleep. I lay on top of the covers, shivering even though it was a warm June evening, trying to piece together what parts of my life were still intact and what was just debris.
I finally drifted off sometime near sunrise, and when I woke up, I half-convinced myself that it was a nightmare. That Richard would roll in, groan about his back, and steal my coffee while pretending nothing was wrong.
Instead, his side of the bed was empty and perfectly made, the way it always was on nights he worked late. For a minute I thought, maybe he’ll come home. Maybe he’ll realize he made a mistake.
The house was silent except for the gentle hum of the air conditioning. I walked around in my pajamas, trying to feel normal. I watered the hydrangeas, made coffee, and even unloaded the dishwasher. I left his mug out, just in case.
It wasn’t until I checked the fridge that I remembered: The mousse. Still untouched. I stared at it for a long time. Then I grabbed a spoon and ate it straight from the bowl, bitter and cold and grainy.
By ten a.m., I’d composed three emails to Richard, deleted all of them, and then finally just texted: “Come home. Please.”
He didn’t answer.
At noon, the doorbell rang. For one insane second, I thought he’d come back, maybe with flowers or some apology, but it was just UPS dropping off a box of toner for the printer. The bCarolinelity of it made me want to scream.
By two, I still hadn’t showered or dressed, and the house was starting to look like a crime scene. I kept moving, kept cleaning, just so I didn’t have to sit with the emptiness.
At three, the phone finally rang. His name on the screen. For a second, I nearly let it go to voicemail, but then I pressed accept.
“Hi.”
His voice was formal, measured. “Caroline. Are you home?”
“Where else would I be?”
A pause. “I’d like to come by. Can we talk?”
I almost said no. I almost hung up. But instead, I said, “Of course.”
He arrived ten minutes later, same as always: suit, tie, hair still wet from a shower. He looked freshly pressed, almost eager.
He didn’t sit down. He didn’t even take off his shoes. “I thought I owed it to you to talk in person.”
I nodded. My knees felt weak.
He looked at his shoes, at the floor, at anything but my face. “Caroline, I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. I don’t want to hurt you, but I need to move forward.”
“Forward,” I echoed, the word tasting like poison.
“Yes,” he said, as if rehearsed. “I can’t go back. Not after this. You deserve someone who—” He stopped himself.
“Don’t,” I said. “Don’t say I deserve better. Don’t say you’re doing this for me.”
He flinched. “It’s not about you. It’s about me, what I need. I want a new start. I want a family again.”
I felt something inside me splinter. “We are a family. We have Adele. We had plans, Richard.”
He shook his head, and for the first time, I saw how angry he was. “You know what I mean. Adele’s grown. You don’t want another child.”
I stared at him, unblinking. “You never asked me.”
He ignored that. “I’m not in love with you, Caroline. Not the way I used to be. And you know it.”
I could feel the blood rushing to my head, my vision tunneling. “We could fix this. We’ve fixed worse.”
He actually smiled, like I’d told a joke. “We’re too old for that.”
I wanted to slap him, but instead I grabbed the back of the kitchen chair to steady myself. “So, what, you’re going to be a dad again? Start over with her?”
He shrugged, like it was the most logical thing in the world. “I want this, Caroline. I want another shot.”
His words stung more than anything else he’d ever said to me. More than the affair, more than the lies, more than the betrayal. Because now it was real: He was leaving me, not for the girl, but for the fantasy of being young again.
I tried to keep my voice steady. “What about the house? What about our life?”
He cleared his throat, businesslike. “We’ll work it out. I’ll talk to an attorney. You’ll be taken care of.”
Taken care of. Like a pet you abandon but still send money for.
He started for the door, then turned back. “I really am sorry, Caroline. I never meant for it to happen like this.”
I stared at him. At his suit, at his hands, at the wedding ring he still wore.
“Why her?” I asked. “Why Madison?”
He shrugged again. “She makes me feel alive. She laughs at my jokes. She wants me. ”
The implication—like I never did—was almost funny. Then he said, “You make me feel dead sorry to say.”
I wanted to hurl the mousse at his face. Instead, I just watched him leave. I waited until his car pulled out of the driveway before I let myself sob.
I collapsed on the kitchen floor, pressed my face to the cold linoleum, and cried so hard I gave myself a headache. I cried until I couldn’t breathe, until there was nothing left but dry heaves and snot and the ugly realization that he was never coming back.
Eventually, I got up. I wandered through the house, touching things—bookshelves, lamp switches, the edge of the bathroom mirror. I looked at my face and saw someone I didn’t recognize. Someone older, yes, but also someone hollowed out.
I wanted to call Adele, but I didn’t want to ruin her life the way mine just got ruined. I wanted to call my mother, but she’d just say “I told you so.” I wanted to call Madison and scream, but I didn’t even have her number.
Instead, I poured myself a glass of pinot, turned on the TV, and watched a cooking show I’d already seen three times. The chef burned the risotto, and for some reason, that made me laugh until I almost choked.
I didn’t eat dinner. I didn’t turn on the porch light. I didn’t answer my mother’s texts.
Sometime after midnight, I finally crawled into bed. I stretched my arm across the mattress, reaching for Richard’s warmth out of pure habit.
I clutched the pillow, pressed my face into it, and tried to breathe. The house was silent. I waited for the hurt to recede, but it only got sharper.
Somewhere in the dark, I started to believe him. Maybe I was too old. Maybe I was the problem. Maybe love was just something you got to have once, if you were lucky.
I lay there for hours, staring at the ceiling, wondering what was wrong with me. Wondering if there was a version of me that could’ve kept him.
By morning, my eyes were raw, my throat was sore, and the only thing I could feel was the weight of a future I never asked for.
And when I looked in the mirror, I barely recognized the woman staring back.