Running a hand through his sleep-tousled hair, Patrick comes into view. He looks exhausted. “You’re… going to work?”
“I have an early shift,” I say, voice flat.
“Right,” he nods. “I… I should probably get ready too.”
I don’t reply. I just keep flipping through the mail like it demands my full attention. Bills. Flyers. A postcard from Genesis with a picture of a waterfall.
“About last night,” he starts.
I stiffen.
Of course he wants to talk now. This morning when I opened the bedroom door he was outside sleeping on the floor. I had to step over him just to get out.
I close the stack of mail, set it down, and grip the edge of the counter.
“Patrick,” I say quietly, trying not to yell. “Don’t.”
He swallows. I can hear it. “Lore… we have to talk. You walked away before I could-”
“Before you could apologize?” I cut in. “Make an excuse? Feel better about what you did?” My voice stays steady, but every word feels like swallowing glass. “It won’t undo it, Patrick. It won’t magically make me feel better.”
He opens his mouth, but I keep going.
“You were right,” I say, nodding once. “I slept with someone else. So, you did the same. It wasn’t an affair.” The words nearly splinter my throat. “And I’ll get over it.”
His face twists. “Just like that?”
“Yes.” I nod again. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
He keeps staring at me, confusion written all over him. Honestly, I’m confused too. I spent all day yesterday and all-night thinking about what he did. Thinking about the hair and the woman, it belonged to.
I couldn’t bring myself to open the bedroom door no matter how much he begged. Thankfully, I had plenty of snacks hidden in the bedroom and sink water is safe to drink in Austin.
Yes, I drank sink water to avoid him.
But at the end of all that… I love him.
And this isn’t something I want to end our marriage over. Like he said, he stopped it. That’s more than most men would’ve and that’s enough for me.
I don’t need the details. I don’t want the descriptions. Women have been forgiving their philandering husbands for millennia. I can forgive mine foronemistake.
But forgiveness isn’t the same as permission.
I bite my lip, grounding myself, then look him dead in the eye.
“Patrick… just so you know. If you ever,everdo something like this again, I will take the kids, the house, and everything you love. I swear to God.”
His eyes widen in shock. “I won’t.”
“I know,” I say simply.
I grab my mug, sling my bag over my shoulder, and head for the door.
“See you tonight.”
And then I’m gone before he can say another word.
God, I can practically feel the feminist in me shrivel and die.
