Chapter 21
Chapter
Twenty-One
Marilyn
I wasn’t sure how long I sat at the table with tears ruining my carefully applied makeup. The only sound was the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional shift of Michael’s chair as he tried, and failed, to make himself invisible.
At one point I saw him move—a twitch of his hand, a shift in his posture, as if every cell in his body wanted to close the distance between us and comfort me the way he always had in the old days.
But then he stopped. He held himself back, shoulders hunched, hands knotted in his lap, and he watched me with an expression that was equal parts regret and resignation.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t apologize again, or ask what he could do, or try to walk back any of what he’d just said. He simply bore witness, quietly, as if my grief was a natural disaster he had unleashed and his only duty now was to stay until the storm passed.
When the tears slowed, I reached for a napkin and wiped my face, embarrassed by how little control I had left. Michael handed me a glass of water but didn’t let our hands touch. He kept his eyes low, giving me room to gather myself.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered.
“You don’t have to be,” he said softly.
Another silence, gentler this time. I glanced up and saw the same Michael I once believed incapable of hurting me—the one who made bad jokes at breakfast and carried sleeping children up the stairs and still, after all of it, could look at me and see the woman he’d married.
But I wasn’t that woman anymore. I doubted I ever would be.
I stood, gathering my things and throwing each item in a bag.
Tears streamed down my cheeks.
My hands shook, but I managed not to drop anything. Michael rose too, then paused a safe distance away, as if waiting for permission to move.
“I’ll walk you out,” he said, voice neutral. It wasn’t a plea, just a courtesy.
The walk to the door was short but heavy with everything we hadn’t said. At the threshold, I hesitated, wanting to ask if things might ever feel less broken, but knowing that any answer would sound like hope, and I wasn’t ready for that.
“Thank you for telling me,” I said, barely managing to look him in the eyes.
He nodded, nothing more.
When I got to my car, I looked back and saw Michael silhouetted in the doorway, hands shoved deep in his pockets, gaze fixed somewhere past my shoulder. Not at me, but at the space where I used to stand when I still believed our marriage was a fortress.
Driving away, I felt emptied out, but not in the familiar, numbed way. This time the ache was sharp and clean. For the first time since everything had fallen apart, I understood that Michael couldn’t patch the wound with words. But at least he had finally stopped trying. What will happen now?
I wasn’t ready to forgive him. But I didn’t need to, not tonight.