Richard and Margaret left a few minutes later.
Neither of them hugged me.
Margaret paused near the door as if she wanted to say something kind, but Daniel was standing behind her, and she seemed to lose her nerve.
"Take care of yourself," she said.
I nodded.
"You, too."
It was the most polite goodbye I could manage.
Richard gave me a brief look.
Then they walked outside.
The front door closed behind them.
For the first time that evening, the house contained only three people.
Daniel.
Sophia.
Me.
I had thought their departure might make things easier.
It did not.
Without his parents in the room, Daniel seemed more impatient.
He walked to the window and pulled the curtain aside.
Then he let it fall.
Sophia sat with her hands folded.
Neither of them spoke for a while.
I remained beside the table.
The champagne bottle stood between us.
It had begun to look like something I had brought home from another person's life.
Finally, Sophia stood.
"I should probably go."
Daniel turned toward her.
"You don't have to."
She glanced at me.
"I think you two need to talk."
I almost thanked her.
Then I realized that she had been part of this arrangement long before I knew her name.
I did not know whether she had expected Daniel to tell me earlier.
I did not know what he had promised her.
I did not know what she believed about our marriage.
I could not answer those questions by studying her face.
So I said nothing.
Daniel took her hand.
"We'll talk tomorrow."
She nodded.
He walked her to the door.
I stayed where I was.
When he returned, he shut the door carefully and leaned against it for a moment.
Then he looked at me.
"Now can we talk like adults?"
I stared at him.
"We have been talking."
"You know what I mean."
I did.
He wanted me to stop questioning his decisions.
He wanted me to accept that the affair was over as a subject of discussion because he had already chosen what he wanted.
He wanted me to move from shock to cooperation without asking him to account for the time I had spent believing him.
But I could not move that quickly.
I sat down.
"All right. What do you want to discuss?"
He pulled out the chair opposite me.
"The house."
I waited.
"We need to work out living arrangements."
"Why?"
He looked irritated.
"Because I want to move forward."
I looked around the living room.
"You can move forward without deciding everything tonight."
He shook his head.
"I don't want us living together while this is happening."
I understood that part.
Living under the same roof after his confession would be painful.
But there was a difference between acknowledging that reality and accepting that I should leave immediately.
"Then we need to discuss what happens next."
"That's what I'm trying to do."
"No. You're telling me what you want me to do."
He leaned back.
For a few seconds, he seemed to consider that distinction.
Then he sighed.
"Fine. What do you suggest?"
I looked at my hands.
I did not have a complete plan.
I had not expected to need one.
That morning, I had believed our most serious financial problem was behind us.
Now I was being asked to consider where I would live, how I would handle the end of my marriage, and what the last three years had actually meant.
I needed time to understand all of it.
"I suggest we don't make decisions while we're angry."
Daniel laughed without humor.
"I'm not angry."
I looked at him.
"Neither am I."
That was not entirely true.
I was angry, but anger was not the only thing I felt.
I was hurt.
I was embarrassed.
I was frightened by how quickly the familiar parts of my life had become uncertain.
But I was not going to let those feelings push me into an answer I would regret.
Daniel rubbed his face.
"I can't keep pretending we're a couple."
"Then don't."
He stared at me.
"What?"
"You don't have to pretend anything. But you also don't have to demand that I settle every practical question tonight."
He looked away.
I could hear the refrigerator humming in the kitchen.
It was an ordinary sound.
I held on to it because everything else felt unstable.
Daniel stood and walked to the table.
He picked up the champagne bottle, examined it, and set it down again.
"Why did you buy this?"
I looked at him.
"To celebrate."
He nodded slowly.
"Right."
He did not apologize.
He did not ask whether I still wanted to open it.
He simply stood there, holding the bottle for a moment before returning it to the table.
I wondered whether he understood what that small gesture meant to me.
Perhaps he did.
Perhaps he had already stopped caring.
I would never know for certain.
He sat down again.
"I didn't want things to happen this way."
I looked at him.
"What way did you want them to happen?"
He opened his mouth, then closed it.
"I don't know."
For the first time that evening, his answer sounded less rehearsed.
I waited.
He looked toward the stairs.
"I thought we'd eventually accept that the marriage wasn't working."
I felt a dull ache in my chest.
"Did you think I would agree that it wasn't working?"
He shrugged.
"I thought you would understand."
I looked at him for a long time.
He had spent almost a year seeing another woman.
He had let me continue believing that we were working toward the same future.
He had accepted the money I earned and the property I sold.
And he thought I would eventually understand.
I wondered what understanding meant to him.
Did he think that because he had made a decision, the rest of us would naturally arrive at the same conclusion?
Did he think that my love for him meant I would accept whatever he chose?
Or had he simply become so accustomed to my patience that he no longer recognized it as a gift?
I could not answer those questions.
I could only tell him what I knew.
"I might eventually understand why you wanted to end the marriage. That doesn't mean I have to agree with how you've handled it."
He looked down.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then he said, "I know I should have told you earlier."
It was the closest he had come to acknowledging his part in what happened.
I felt a small, painful flicker of hope.
Not hope that he would change his mind.
Hope that he might finally speak honestly.
"Why didn't you?"
He rubbed his thumb against the edge of the table.
"I didn't know how."
I waited for more.
None came.
"That's all?"
He looked up.
"What do you want me to say?"
"The truth would be a start."
He sighed.
"I was afraid of what would happen."
I stared at him.
"You were afraid of what would happen if you told me you were having an affair?"
He nodded slightly.
I almost laughed.
I had been afraid, too.
I had been afraid that his business would fail.
I had been afraid that the debt would destroy our savings.
I had been afraid that selling my apartment would leave me with fewer choices later.
But when I felt afraid, I worked harder.
I tried to solve the problem.
Daniel had apparently solved his fear by keeping me in the dark.
I looked at the table between us.
"Did you ever think about what would happen to me?"
He did not answer.
I waited.
He looked toward the window.
That was an answer of its own, though not the one I wanted.
I stood up and took the empty glass to the kitchen.
I rinsed it and placed it beside the sink.
Then I returned.
Daniel was still sitting in the same chair.
"I don't expect you to forgive me," he said.
I stopped.
The words sounded so reasonable that I almost missed what was wrong with them.
Forgiveness was not the decision I was trying to make that night.
I was trying to understand what had happened and how to protect myself from making things worse.
"You don't need to worry about forgiveness right now," I told him.
He frowned.
"Then what are you worried about?"
I looked at him.
"My future."
He seemed surprised.
I continued.
"I spent three years helping you protect yours. I need to think about mine now."
He lowered his eyes.
I did not know whether he felt guilty.
I did not know whether he regretted the timing of his confession.
I knew only that he had finally heard me say something that did not revolve around his needs.
I walked toward the hallway.
"I'm going to bed."
He stood quickly.
"Wait. Are you saying you'll stay here?"
"I'm saying I'm going to bed."
He looked frustrated again.
"You can't keep avoiding this."
"I'm not avoiding it, Daniel. I'm refusing to rush it."
I left him in the living room.
Upstairs, I changed into my nightclothes and washed my face.
I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror.
My eyes were red, but I had not cried as much as I expected.
I felt empty.
Not peaceful.
Not strong.
Just empty.
I returned to the bedroom and sat beside the dresser.
The jewelry box was still where I had left it.
I opened it and took out my mother's earrings.
I held them in my palm for a moment.
They were small and ordinary.
They had never been worth much money, but I had kept them because my mother had worn them on special occasions.
I placed them back in the box and closed the lid.
I did not want to start packing my life into bags.
Not tonight.
When I finally lay down, I kept my side of the bed untouched.
I could hear Daniel moving around downstairs.
A cupboard opened.
A door closed.
Then the house became quiet.
I stared at the ceiling.
I had spent years believing that a marriage could survive any difficulty if both people continued trying.
Now I understood that trying alone could not save it.
But I also understood something else.
The end of a marriage did not mean the end of my ability to make choices.
I did not have to know every answer before morning.
For the first time that day, I allowed myself to rest without making a promise about what I would do next.
Click here to continue reading: PART 7: Morning Came Without an Apology, and the Unopened Champagne Reminded Me of the Future I Had Been Promised but Never Received
I Thought Paying Off Three Hundred Thousand Dollars Would Save Our Marriage, but My Husband Had Prepared Something I Never Expected
Part 6 of 20
