“Please let me live with Dad,” Katy had pleaded before driving off. Each of those words had whistled through the air to pierce my heart like poison-tipped darts, and not only because I’ve devoted myself to parenting her. Richard hasn’t and won’t.
From the moment we accidentally conceived her in college, he’s loved the “idea” of his mini-me—our gorgeous, intelligent daughter—yet, over time, his priorities undermined her bit by bit, pecking away at her like a crow.
Despite this act he’s putting on now, he doesn’t want Katy disturbing his next family, but of course he won’t tell her that. Once again he’s left the black hat on the table for me to wear while I flounder for some way not to devastate her—exactly like he did when he dropped the divorce bomb on me in May and then took off for New York for a few weeks to work some big deal.
Frankly, I expected him to do or say something to reset the balance of power today. For once, control is something I can deny him for a change. He leans forward, hands stretched out on the table, wedding band already removed. I cover my wedding rings before pulling both hands onto my lap.
“Anne, you’ll be better off once you admit that you weren’t any happier in our marriage than I’ve been lately. Trust me, there’s someone out there who’s more capable of meeting your needs than I ever was. You deserve that, too.”
Blandishments? My temperature is steadily climbing. At this rate, I could blow like Vesuvius before the brokers return. All these years I’ve set aside my own ambitions and managed our home and daughter while he focused on his career, and this is how he repays me? In any case, the last thing I want now is another man in my life after having spent my entire adulthood with this one.
“Gee, thanks.” I refuse to look away although something uncomfortable slithers through me—perhaps an acknowledgment of my willingness over time to settle for a B-minus marriage instead of striving for an A-plus one.
Our passion had begun to ebb once he’d graduated from law school and gone to work. Truth be told, Richard practically lived at his office while building his practice, which then left me little opportunity to be either an outstanding or a poor wife.
Then Katy started showing signs of extreme sensitivities around four—a hyperawareness of others’ opinions, banging her head against a wall when she made a mistake, crying too easily over every little thing. Richard called them tantrums, but I worried she might have deeper issues. Managing her behavior and schedule required more and more of my attention, exhausting me.
Between Richard’s long hours, my volunteerism, and Katy’s needs, it seemed as if sex became scheduled like every other obligation, and our conversations veered toward efficiency rather than intimacy. But we’d had Katy to connect us, and I thought we’d rediscover each other and spontaneity once she went to college.
The actual result? Richard now enjoys a thriving practice and new family while I’m living in a chronic state of confusion with a teen who constantly misconstrues me.
He’s still handsome, though: thick dark hair with hints of silver, cheekbones I envy, and a gorgeous mouth. Vital, too, thanks to vigorous exercise and boundless energy. Everything comes easily to him, as with Katy. Maybe that’s why neither of them is patient with how hard the rest of us work for the things that matter.
“Seems I can’t do anything right today.” He sits back. It saddens me that this exchange has probably reaffirmed his relief to be ditching me. I bury every bit of grief beneath the thick seams of resentment and righteous indignation his adultery has handed me.
To look at him now, I wouldn’t recognize the man who’d pursued me during our junior year at the University of Richmond. He’d been relentless, coming around the studio where I’d painted, or bringing his books along to the James River Park’s green spaces where I’d sketched. Like my gram, he’d encouraged my wildest artistic dreams. That praise, the belly kisses and hushed whispers as we lay naked and spent, the love notes stuck in my backpack, the flowers he’d bring for no reason—all his ardor tricked me into believing that, despite being twenty, naive, and pregnant, we could build a happy life together—a family like the one I’d lost when my mother died.
Since then, I’ve come to call that zeal his “acquisition mode,” as he’s wooed new clients with the same intensity. His surname suits him, because he much prefers the chase to maintenance.
Lauren will be in my shoes soon enough. The day some major new client or other woman crosses his radar, I’ll have the last laugh. Of course, I’ll feel bad for her two young children, who’ll be casualties of his whims. Like Katy.
If Richard and I were alone now, I might literally reach across the table to slap that self-pitying look off his face. Look at him sitting there as if everything is about him. He doesn’t get it and never will. My mood—the root of my concern—is about Katy.
Yes, I’m a woman in my prime. A woman of some means. A woman with talent, some might even say. But first and foremost I am a mother.
“What’d you do with the furniture? It can’t all fit in Marie’s old house.” Richard’s question temporarily throws me.
“Severed Ties took what we didn’t need.” The high-end consignment store pays the original owner 50 percent of its profit on sales. “Whatever I make will be put toward Katy’s college fund.”
“Keep it.” His full lips bend into a conciliatory smile. “I can pay her tuition.”
Here he goes again, sounding generous when really he’s trying to buy me off so he can boast to others about how fair he’s been. He’s never understood this about me: I don’t care about hoarding money or things. Never did and never will. “And I can afford to contribute.”
Some might consider me lucky because, along with my suitcases, I take a comfortable nest egg and alimony—enough that I’m not panicked about establishing a career after all these years at home. But he’s still gotten off pretty cheaply for betraying me and our old dreams. Naturally, I don’t share my feelings or let him see my pain.
“Fine, Anne.” He rolls his eyes and checks his watch. “Jesus, I’m trying to be a decent guy.”
Too little, too late.
A laundry list of insults cycles through my mind like ticker tape, but I literally bite my tongue when another image of Katy’s splotchy face from this morning flickers through my mind. All the time spent filling her life with love and opportunity means very little in light of one inescapable reality: by letting our family fall apart, Richard and I have fundamentally failed our daughter.
Condemning my husband is pointless. However we got here, the result is the same.
The brokers return, confirm the payments, congratulate us all, and quickly show us out. Even though I never loved that house, the finality of what’s happening hits me like a board to the face. My married life and home are truly lost to me. There will be no going back. No fixing what broke. I’m starting over at thirty-seven. That prospect festers like an ulcer. All I know is how to be a wife and mother.
My hands tremble for a split second as I grapple with my purse strap. Please, God, don’t let Richard see my strength falter. His affair humiliated me. He can never know how badly he’s hurt me, too.