Chapter 5 #2
"How are you feeling about the changes you've been making?
" Dr. Jones asked during my third session, settling into her chair with that calm presence that made confession feel inevitable.
I'd grown comfortable with these appointments, the safe space where I could be honest about my dissatisfaction without worrying about judgment or social consequences.
"Good, mostly," I said, which was partially true.
The photography was helping, giving me something to focus on besides the slow-motion car crash of my personal life.
"I've been taking pictures around town, posting some of them online.
It feels like I'm rediscovering parts of myself I'd forgotten existed. "
My Instagram account had gained twelve followers, probably mostly bots, but posting the photos felt like planting flags of independence.
This was mine. This small corner of the internet where I could be someone other than Brett's wife or the kids' mother or the woman who organized charity fundraisers with coordinated napkin colors.
"That's wonderful. And how are things at home?"
The question seemed loaded with implications I wasn't ready to address.
How were things at home? My husband was having an affair with a Harvard-educated lawyer twenty years younger than me.
My marriage was disintegrating while I pretended everything was normal and made pot roast for family dinners nobody enjoyed.
I was collecting evidence of my own betrayal like some suburban Nancy Drew, building a case against the man I'd promised to love forever.
"Fine," I said, which was becoming my default response to questions I wasn't ready to answer honestly. "The usual ups and downs of long-term marriage. You know how it is."
Dr. Jones made a note in her leather journal, and I wondered if she could hear the lie in my response. If part of her training involved recognizing when patients were avoiding the real issues in favor of easier topics that wouldn't require actual change or confrontation.
"Lauren," she said gently, setting down her pen and looking at me with those kind eyes that saw too much. "Sometimes our intuition picks up on things before our conscious mind is ready to process them. Are you experiencing any feelings of unease or suspicion about your relationship?"
The directness of the question caught me off guard like a slap. She knew. Somehow, she could sense that I was sitting on information that would change everything if I chose to share it. That I was carrying around proof of my husband's betrayal like a bomb I was afraid to detonate.
"No," I said quickly, too quickly, my response coming out sharp and defensive. "Everything's fine. Brett's just been busy with work, and I'm adjusting to having more time for myself now that the kids are older."
The explanation sounded weak even to me, a script I'd been rehearsing for weeks without believing it. Brett wasn't just busy with work. He was busy building a life with someone else, someone who made him excited about expensive dinners and weekend getaways and jewelry.
Dr. Jones nodded, but her expression suggested she wasn't entirely convinced by my reassurances.
"Trust and communication are foundational to healthy relationships," she said.
"If you ever find yourself questioning either of those elements, it's important to address those concerns rather than letting them fester and grow into something more destructive. "
"I trust my husband," I said, though it sounded bitter. "We've been married for twenty-three years. If there were problems, I'd know about them."
But I did know about them. I knew everything except how to admit it out loud without destroying what was left of my structured life.
I left the session feeling like I'd wasted an hour and two hundred dollars avoiding the conversation I most needed to have.
But talking about it would make it real in ways I wasn't prepared to handle yet.
As long as I kept Brett's affair theoretical, something I suspected but couldn't prove conclusively, I could maintain the illusion that my life was salvageable.
I was eating chicken salad at the kitchen island, trying to focus on a photography blog about composition techniques, when my phone rang.
Cheryl's name on the screen made me smile for the first time all day.
My sister-in-law had a way of cutting through my tendency toward overthinking with her straightforward approach to life.
"Hey, stranger," I answered, settling back into my chair and closing the laptop. "How's work treating you?"
"Like I need a vacation from dealing with cardiac patients and hospital politics," she said, and I could hear both exhaustion and affection in her voice.
Gary's wife had always been practical about life's pleasures, someone who appreciated good things without guilt or apology.
Cheryl worked as a senior nurse at Massachusetts General, one of those highly respected medical professionals who managed people's lives and deaths with equal competence while somehow maintaining her sanity.
"Listen, Gary and I were talking about Heather’s birthday next month.
Seventy-eight seems like a milestone worth celebrating properly. "
"It does," I agreed, thinking about my mother at her assisted living facility on Cape Cod, still sharp as a tack but increasingly frail.
Dad's death twelve years ago had aged her in ways that went beyond simple grief.
She'd lost her anchor, her reason for caring about things like birthday celebrations and family gatherings and the daily maintenance of happiness.
"We were thinking of organizing something right there on Cape Cod for the weekend," Cheryl continued, and I could hear her excitement building.
"You know how much she's always loved being near the ocean, and now that she's right there, it makes perfect sense.
We could rent one of those beach houses nearby, get everyone together for a real celebration. What do you think?"
"I think it sounds perfect," I said, meaning it more than I'd meant anything in weeks.
My mother had always found peace near the water, something about the way the horizon stretched endlessly in all directions that made life's problems seem smaller and more manageable.
A weekend away from Bexley Hills and its pretenses sounded like exactly what I needed.
"Great. I'll start looking at rental properties this afternoon.
Nothing too fancy, but something with enough bedrooms for everyone.
We're thinking Friday evening for the party itself, then everyone can leave Saturday morning if they want.
Can you check with Brett about his schedule?
I know he's always got some important business thing going on.
Gary's already cleared his calendar, and Isabella's exchange program in London doesn't end until December, so it'll just be the adults this time. "
"Sure," I said, though I already knew he wouldn't be interested.
Brett's relationship with my family was polite but distant, a sort of obligatory connection that came with marriage but didn't extend to genuine affection.
He tolerated my mother's birthday dinners and my brother's political opinions and Cheryl's medical stories about hospital bureaucracy, but he'd never embraced any of it.
Gary and Cheryl lived in Wellesley, one of those affluent Boston suburbs where successful people raised successful children, but Brett always found their lifestyle somehow less sophisticated than ours.
"Oh, and I was thinking we could do that thing she always talks about," Cheryl continued.
"Get some of those lobster rolls from that place she loves.
Make it feel special, you know? Isabella keeps texting from London about how much she misses New England seafood, so we'll have to send her pictures. "
We talked for another few minutes about logistics and guest lists, a planning that made family gatherings feel possible instead of overwhelming. Cheryl had always been good at organizing celebrations, making sure everyone felt included without making it feel like work.
"I need to grab Brett's dry cleaning while we're talking," I said, heading upstairs with the phone still pressed to my ear. "Keep going with the plans. I'm listening."
His walk-in closet was perfectly organized, everything arranged by color and season, and level of formality.
Suits hung in perfect rows, ties displayed on a rotating rack, shoes lined up like soldiers awaiting inspection.
The organization was Brett's, not mine, a level of control that extended to every corner of his personal space.
I was gathering shirts when I spotted something unusual tucked behind his dress shoes, partially hidden by a garment bag.
A small jewelry box from Cartier, the kind of elegant packaging that suggested a purchase measured in thousands rather than hundreds.
The distinctive red box with its gold lettering, immediately recognizable as the kind of gift that said I love you in a language that cost five figures.
My heart stopped as I picked it up, my hands shaking slightly as I opened the hinged lid with fingers that suddenly felt numb and clumsy.
A diamond bracelet lay nestled in cream-colored silk, delicate and expensive and absolutely nothing I'd ever seen before.
The stones caught the closet light and threw rainbows across the walls, beautiful and damning and definitely not something I'd received for my birthday or our anniversary or any other occasion I could remember.
"Oh my God," I whispered, the words barely audible in the quiet closet.