Page 11 of The Husband I Left

“See you tomorrow,” I said instead.

* * *

Looking back, that was when I started disappearing. Maybe not all at once, but that’s when it started, nonetheless. My wild curls became sleek, controlled waves. My wardrobe filled with soft pastels and high necklines. I learned how to greet people; I learned which fork to use; I learned how to make appropriate small talk. I no longer talked just to fill the silence when nervous. I learned how to answer to Genevieve.

And Oliver was happy. Nany was content. I no longer felt quite so out of place when I walked into a room on Oliver’s arm. All it cost was that I no longer recognized myself when I looked in a mirror.

Genny Palmer disappeared, and Genevieve Sinclair stepped into her place.

Chapter 3

Genny

The first real fight Oliver and I ever had was about my family. More specifically, about Sunday dinner with my family.

A week after we got back from Vegas, Oliver took my parents out to dinner. Oliver picked the restaurant, an exclusive French place he favored for business dinners. My father walked in wearing his good khakis and my mother was in her Easter dress, and immediately they both looked uncomfortable and out of place. Oliver greeted them both with the formality of a man receiving dignitaries. He shook my father’s hand with both of his own and kissed my mother’s cheek. He called them Mr. and Mrs. Palmer. He never once called them Will and Alice, despite my having introduced them as such.

Oliver and my father really tried to find common ground with each other. My father tried to talk fishing and sports and got a blank stare back. Oliver tried to talk finance and markets and got a blank stare back. My mother picked at her salmon and looked around self-consciously. I think every single one of us was relieved when dinner was over.

The following week, we hosted my whole family at the penthouse. My mother walked in clutching a pan of lemon bars, and my father held a bottle of the same red blend we always drank on special occasions.

“Well,” Mom said, taking in the floor-to-ceiling windows, the white furniture, the art on the walls. “Isn’t this something.”

“This is quite the place, Genny-bug,” Dad agreed. He didn’t sit down for the first twenty minutes. I knew how he felt. I’d been living here for weeks and still found it hard to relax.

My brothers and sister and their families arrived soon after. Oliver was a gracious host, greeting them each with a handshake, crouching down to speak with the children. Mrs Stewart took their coats and offered them drinks. I saw my sister Liz and sister-in-law Summer glance at each other and then at the expensive, pristine furniture and then look at their children. Their expressions were worried.

Dinner was another exercise in endurance. The children picked at Mrs. Stewart’s beef bourguignon, and I was glad I’d had the foresight to insist she also prepare a stack of grilled cheese sandwiches as a backup. My siblings were so worried about their kids making a mess or breaking something that they couldn’t enjoy themselves. My dad tried to make small talk the only way he knew how.

“How’s the plumbing in this place? Probably pretty good, right? No old pipes like we have at home,” he asked halfway through dinner.

Oliver blinked. “I… I’m not sure we’ve ever had an issue.”

“Well, that’s good. I was just thinking, you know, if you ever do, give me a call. I’d be happy to take a look. Family discount.”

My mother pressed her hand to her forehead and mouthed oh God at me from behind her wine glass.

It wasn’t exactly what you’d call a success.

What I wanted was for Oliver to come to Sunday dinner at my parent’s house with me. Every Sunday for as long as I can remember, whoever can make it shows up at my parents’ house at five o’clock and we have dinner together. I wanted Oliver to come and get to know my family in a setting where they felt comfortable. So I asked Oliver to join me. Not every week. Just sometimes.

The first time, he was reviewing something on his laptop when I asked.

“So, Sunday,” I said. “Dinner at my parents’. I want us to go. Together.”

“This Sunday?” He didn’t look up. “I have calls with the Singapore office.”

“On a Sunday?”

“Markets don’t keep banker’s hours, Genevieve.”

“Okay, then next Sunday.”

He finally looked up. “Genevieve. I run a company with offices on three continents. I can’t simply take off on a whim.”

“It happens every Sunday, Oliver. It’s hardly a whim. I’m just asking you to clear one Sunday and join me.”

Oliver promised he’d see what he could do, and the subject was dropped. I went to the first Sunday dinner after my wedding alone and made excuses for him. After dinner, just before I left, my mother pulled me into her room. She fussed over my clothes for a few minutes, chatting about nothing in particular. She was nervous. Finally she looked at me and said, “Are you sure, Genny? He’s…not what we’d always pictured for you.”