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“I can’t believe this.” Mark’s hands curl into fists, his chest swelling like a bear puffing himself up for a fight. He’s furious—and I am dumbstruck. I’m not sure what I expected but it was not this. This is the most emotion I have seen in my husband in ages. Hell, I can’t remember the last time he was mad. Really mad.
“Why?” Mark demands. “Why, Amber?”
And in that simple, three-letter word, my resolve weakens.
Why.
How can I accurately explain why when I am so overwhelmed with nerves that I can’t even form a thought in my head? I’ve spent hours, days, months—years—practicing what I would say during this moment. Yet it feels like all the bravery and courage vanished the moment he wants to understand more about it. To talk about it. To make it real. I realize then that I am ill-prepared for this moment. I blame the wine.
“Why?” he barks, becoming emboldened by my sudden attack of amnesia. His chest is rising and falling heavily now, reminding me of the time he got into a bar brawl when we were dating decades ago.
Remain calm. (Another piece of advice I give my clients.)
My brain tells my lungs to take a deep breath but the communication gets lost somewhere in the crippling anxiety coursing through my veins.
“I’m not happy,” I say with little strength in my voice. “I haven’t been for a long time. You know this.”
He releases a groan of frustration and grips the top of his head.
Connor stumbles into the room, hair a mess, jammies in a twist, totally oblivious to the drama around him. Neither of us look at him.
“I can’t fucking believe this.”
“You can’t believe this?” I gawk at him. “Are you serious? I have told you countless times I wasn’t happy, that I didn’t feel content in our marriage.”
“I know but we talked about it. And I thought things got better.”
“Better?” A humorless cackle escapes my lips. Now I’m getting mad. “Things got better for a little while, yeah, but then they just go right back to the way they were. That’s what happens. We talk, things change for a few months, and then they change right back… And also…” I hesitate, but then force myself to say it. “I’m sick of carrying the weight of paying all the bills.”
He says nothing, his ego obliterated by the hit. I, on the other hand, feel relief.
“We’ve talked about it before,” I continue. “I even asked you to get another job, one that contributes more to the household bills and our debt—but you won’t. You listen but you never take the next step.”
“You said you were okay with it, Amber,” he sneers.
“Once. And I only said it because I felt terrible for even bringing it up. But seriously, Mark? Did you really think I’d be cool with us rolling into retirement with you having not only not contributed a penny toward it, but also not helped with paying off the debt you and I both created?”
“So you were lying when you said you were okay with it.”
“I said that once! One time. A long time ago—and I was just trying to make you feel better. I remember that fight. We were both drunk.”
“You know what? That’s your problem, Amber. You talk out of both sides of your ass.”
“No. I act, Mark. That’s the difference between you and me. When I realized my therapy business wasn’t turning enough of a profit to make sense, I shut it down and went to work for someone else. Do you know that you never once said you were sorry to me? Never once offered a shoulder to cry on? That was hard on me, Mark! I failed. I was depressed for months after that. I felt like a laughing stock. But I did what was best for the family.”
“Just like you’re doing now?”
“Fuck you. I’m sick of it—all of it. And just like my business, when I knew it wasn’t going to work, I made a change. That’s what I’m doing right now. You and I,” I gestured between us, “we don’t work. So I’m going to make a change.”
“You are…” His jaw clenches. “Unbelievable, do you know that? Selfish—you’re selfish. You always have been. I can’t believe you’re doing this.”
Connor is now weaving in and out of the table legs while humming—loudly—a song he must have heard while watching cartoons. He’s doing this because he’s either picked up on the drama and feels uncomfortable, or he can’t read a freaking room—just like his dad.
“What about him?” Mark gestures to Connor under the table.
“I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far ahead. But we’ll figure that out. That’s what lawyers are for.”
The second the word lawyer rolls off my tongue, Mark snaps. Spinning on his heel, he sends his fist into the kitchen wall, blasting a hole through the sheetrock.
