But before hanging up, she said something I’d been afraid I’d never hear again.
“Maybe we can talk next week.”
Claire and I started marriage counseling.
Some sessions were uncomfortable.
Some ended with both of us crying.
And there were still evenings when I caught myself preparing an excuse instead of listening.
But now I stopped.
Not always quickly.
Not always gracefully.
Still, I stopped.
One evening, Claire told me she’d had a difficult day.
I almost said I’d had one too.
Instead, I asked what happened.
She talked.
I listened.
And afterward, she rested her head against my shoulder.
It was a small moment.
But one I hadn’t realized we’d been missing.
Claire hasn’t put her ring back on.
I don’t know when she will.
Or whether she will.
But last Sunday, she was making pickles again.
I walked into the kitchen.
Cucumbers covered the counter.
Garlic was everywhere.
