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He’s silent a moment, his head in his hands. And when he looks back up at me, the sour expression on his face makes me think we’re not going to have a quiet and civilized conversation.
“You think because my love isn’t loud that it isn’t real? That just because I don’t make you fucking kill yourself for my affection—”
“What affection?!” It’s my turn to interrupt him. To remind him of just how dead our marriage became. “I can’t remember the last time I felt like our sex life wasn’t a chore.”
Before I can say anything else, he stands, gathers his things, and storms out of the house. After a moment of silence, I hear a quiet voice from the top of the stairs.
“Is daddy not staying for dinner?”
Penny’s eyes are wide and Jilly’s are full of tears and I rush up the steps to gather them in my arms.
“Come on,” I whisper, “we’ll order pizza and eat it in my bed.”
All while I spend time with my babies, trying to erase the fractured moment they witnessed, I’m reminded of the night I asked Peter for a divorce.
Of his anger then, much quieter than tonight.
He’s never left without saying goodbye to the girls before. Never been so upset with me, even when I told him about Abraham.
Is all of this coming out of nowhere for him? Was he unable to see the subtle shifts in me; the way I spent more time at work than at home? The way I took work trips without him and shied away from alone time with him?
Because all alone time would do is make it painfully obvious that he and I are devastatingly incompatible.
Men will never understand the language of women.
What is seen as emotional is intuitive. What’s seen as selfish is self-preservation.
And what’s often seen as an abrupt departure is a long-suffering denial, finally acknowledged.
