Chapter 9
Chapter
Nine
Marilyn
I asked Michael to meet me at a bench on the Tiburon waterfront, a place neutral enough that neither of us would feel at home. It was a weekday, the tourist rush still weeks away, and the only witnesses to our conversation were a pair of gulls fighting over a granola bar wrapper.
He wore a navy pullover and jeans, the kind of civilian outfit he used for weekends or when he wanted to look harmless. I wore black, not because I was mourning, but because it made me feel less visible.
He sat first, folding his hands in his lap, looking not at me but at the water.
I started: “I need thirty days. No contact except for kids, finances, or emergencies. After that, we’ll see.”
He nodded, lips pressed together. “Okay.”
“That means no emails, no gifts, no random messages just to say you’re thinking of me.”
Another nod.
“You can talk to the kids as much as you want. And if there’s a family event, I’m not asking you to avoid it. We’re both Ashfords.”
He looked at me, surprise flickering. “You don’t want me to disappear?”
“Not from them,” I said. “Just from us.”
He took a deep breath, the kind that sounded like old habits dying. “I can do that.”
I almost laughed, because it was the first time in our entire marriage that Michael hadn’t tried to argue me out of a boundary.
I stood up, expecting him to reach for my hand or ask for a final hug. Instead, he stayed seated, eyes on the water, not moving.
“Thirty days,” he said.
I walked away before he could see how relieved and miserable I felt at the same time.
The first week was harder than I’d imagined.
For twenty-six years, Michael had been the first person I told about every dumb thing that happened in my day, every bit of gossip, every petty annoyance and secret delight. I would read something funny online, and reach for my phone, and then remember: no contact.
I missed him less as a husband and more as a co-conspirator. The silence hurt in places I didn’t know I still had.
Every time one of our kids did something ridiculous or impressive, my first thought was, I need to tell Michael. Then the second thought, the cold reminder that he was off-limits.
At night, I would wake from dreams where he was still the old Michael, and then lie there, unable to sleep, rehearsing the conversations I couldn’t have.
By the end of the second week, I started to question if I’d made the right choice. Maybe I should have allowed some contact, some small thread of communication, just to keep from unraveling.
But I didn’t call. I didn’t write. I let the space between us grow until it felt like a physical landscape, a valley I had to cross every morning just to make coffee.
It was only at the end of the third week that I realized what I was really mourning.
I missed the man who had always made the world seem funnier, lighter, more possible. I missed the safety of knowing there was someone on my side, no matter how bad things got.
And I hated that, after everything, I still missed him.