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I thought I might be superwoman by the time he finally, after an eternity or so of me intermittently knocking, unlocked the door. He opened it and left it ajar. He didn’t apologize, and he made it clear— he felt no remorse. I was due a lesson.
What happened next is a long story, but the gist of it is, I caved. I agreed to see someone. It was more than an olive branch. It was the whole tree. If I’d been asked, even just weeks ago, if I’d abdicate control so easily, I would have said never in a million years.
Who knew? Life can change on a dime.
Sometimes you can see the whole picture and sometimes you can’t.
“What were you thinking?” he’d demanded. “How could you be so stupid, Laurel? Do you have any idea what it would do—having that kind of responsibility on our shoulders? You can’t even keep track of a cat. And you’re considering trying your hand on a human?”
Yes, I wanted to say. That’s exactly what I’m considering. I’ve dealt with your health issues for years. Unfortunately, he beat me to the punch. “Don’t you think we have enough to deal with? What if I needed you? How can you not see that you’re distracted enough as it is? And Leo. Thanks to you, Leo is probably dead in some ditch—and if he isn’t yet—he will be.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. He didn’t hear it.
He was fuming. Pacing the house. Knocking stuff off the walls. This happens sometimes when his blood sugar gets too high. But this wasn’t that. “I really don’t know what goes through that head of yours…”
“I—”
“No. You know what? I do know,” he told me, throwing a dinner plate against the wall. “I’ll tell you exactly what you were thinking. You were thinking I shouldn’t get to have something that makes me happy if you don’t have the same. You’re selfish, Laurel. You’ve always been selfish.”
“I wasn’t thinking that at all.” I didn’t understand how a conversation that was meant to be about my father had turned into a conversation about an animal. Sure, he means a lot to my husband. I know that. But he’s a cat. Cats are resilient. He’d come back. Surely.
“So what then? Let me guess…you thought it was better to move ahead with things despite how I’d feel. You thought it was better to seek forgiveness than permission.”
“No—that’s not it.”
“That’s exactly it.” He picked up another plate.
“Forgive me,” I whispered, watching the shards of dishware tumbling down around me. “Come to bed. Please. I’ll do anything.”
“No one,” he said, “does anything.”
James sent me a few names from the office this
morning. I texted back right away and agreed to make an appointment. Once my father slipped off into his afternoon nap, I went for a walk in the park, where I intended to do just that. Fresh air can do you good, the nurse told me. It did not do me good. I couldn’t stop thinking about last night. I couldn’t stop thinking about broken dishes or holes in the wall that would have to be patched. I couldn’t stop thinking about what might happen if the cat didn’t come back. It was making me sick. As it was, I’d stayed up through the night, making signs, posting on the internet—emailing shelters—doing anything I could. Finally, I threw on three layers of clothes, grabbed a flashlight and went on a search party of one. Meanwhile my husband slept soundly. I expected as much. Things had gotten bad before. But never that bad. My husband could be mercurial. But he’d never locked me out of the house. He’d never ordered me to therapy.
Then, today, while I was in the park, James texted me an address. He’d taken care of the appointment for me. He’d scheduled it for that very afternoon. It’s this or…I don’t know…
It hit me straightaway, like a strong left hook, coming out of nowhere. The realization that my marriage might most definitely be in trouble—that I might not only lose my father but my husband too.
Only it was in a different way than I’d imagined. I’d long considered the possibility of being a widow on account of James’s diabetes. But I’d never considered that he might want to leave me on his own free will. The realization was dizzying, seeing his disenchantment spelled out in words on a screen. You need help. I don’t know who you’ve become.
All of a sudden, I needed to walk. If I hadn’t been wearing boots with a heel, I might have taken off running. I needed something strong and heavy. I needed a distraction. A pick-me-up. Something to take my mind off things.
This is how I wound up in the coffee shop. God knows how far I might have gone had it not presented itself.
When the barista asked for my order, I wanted to say, “Whatever you’ve got, just fuck me up.” So as not to be misunderstood, I ordered a quad espresso instead—which I guzzled while scrolling through emails. There were a few from work, but nothing that inspired me enough to respond.
Initially, James had suggested I take some time off, after my father’s diagnosis. He thought I should step away from the company we built—let someone else handle my workload temporarily. I won’t be able to get this time with my father back, he reminded me. But what had sounded good at the time was, in reality, impossible. Despite our success, we were, in every way that really counted, still very much a lean startup.
It wasn’t in the cards for me to take time off. Not now. Not with so much at stake.
Unfortunately, work hasn’t been the same. My heart’s not in it. No matter how deep I dig, I can’t seem to summon the mojo I need—the energy I used to bring. I can’t even seem to find the time to look for those things. On the bright side, I’d get to waste an hour I don’t have spilling my life story to a stranger that very afternoon. My husband’s logic was frequently paradoxical.
I scrolled through my inbox once more. Delete, delete, delete. Isn’t it funny, I thought to myself, how the things you once found so important could suddenly become so insignificant.
“Laurel?”
I knew in an instant the voice behind my name, and it wasn’t the barista calling out my order.
