“Because I needed to admit something to myself.”
“What?”
She looked toward the jars.
“That I might have a choice.”
For years, I’d thought our marriage was fine because we rarely fought.
Now I understood.
Claire hadn’t stopped being upset.
She’d stopped telling me.
Just like Emily.
And I’d mistaken both silences for peace.
That evening, after the kids went to bed, Claire and I sat at the kitchen table.
No television.
No phones.
For once, I didn’t explain myself.
I asked what she’d been trying to tell me.
And listened.
Some things hurt.
She remembered conversations I’d forgotten.
Promises I’d made and never followed through on.
Times she’d asked for help and I’d treated her exhaustion like an inconvenience.
At one point, I started to interrupt.
Claire stopped talking.
I caught myself.
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