“Leon, he’s worked for you for eleven years.”
“I knew that.”
“His daughter just got accepted to Columbia. He cried in the car when the letter came. You were on a call and didn’t notice.”
Leonidas said nothing.
“And Maria—your housekeeper in Athens—her mother is sick. She’s been flying back to the Philippines every other month. You approved the time off, but do you know why she needed it?”
He didn’t.
“What about birthdays?” Lexy continued, her voice gentle rather than accusing. “Do you know when Mrs. Sanchez’s birthday is?”
“That’s what assistants are for.”
“I’m not your assistant, Leon.” She looked down at her phone again, her dark hair falling forward to hide her expression. “I’ve been sending cards on your behalf for eight years. I just...thought you should know.”
The words weren’t meant to wound him.
That was somehow worse.
Because she wasn’t angry. She wasn’t trying to make him feel guilty. She was simply telling him the truth—that she was one of the many people in his life he had overlooked.
****
The mediation questionsarrived on day six.
A sealed envelope slipped under their door each morning, containing cards printed with prompts they were required to discuss over dinner. Adriano had explained it was part of the process. Structured communication. Guided intimacy.
Leonidas thought it was torture dressed up in therapeutic language.
But Lexy approached each question with the same earnest determination she brought to her failed cooking attempts, and he found himself unable to do anything less than match her effort.
Day Six: What does your partner do that makes you feel cared for?
He’d had answers. Specific ones. The way she always seemed to know when he’d had a difficult call and would appear with tea he hadn’t asked for. The way she remembered every preference he’d ever mentioned in passing. The way she still looked at him with those soft, serious eyes even after everything he’d put her through.
But when he’d asked her the same question, she’d gone quiet for a long moment before answering.
“You...handle things,” she said finally. “Logistics. I never have to worry about logistics.”
Logistics.
Eight years of marriage, and she felt cared for because he managed her calendar.
“Is that all?” he heard himself ask.
Lexy’s gaze dropped to her plate. “You make sure I eat. You charge my phone when I forget. You...you always make sure I’m safe.”
It should have made him feel better.
It didn’t.
Because he was starting to realize that all the ways he’d cared for her were practical. Logistical. The kind of care you’d give a valued employee or a distant relative.
Not a wife.
Never the way you’d care for a wife you actually loved.
