“What?” I cut him off.
The word is sharp. It cuts through his monologue the way Maeve’s scoff cut through the air.
Julian stops short.
“What do you mean, ‘find the reasons’?” I ask. “You cheated because you chose to. Because you wanted to. That’s the reason.”
Julian’s expression falters.
A soft, incredulous exhale escapes him, followed by a faint, condescending smile that holds no warmth.
The smile is familiar. It is the smile he used to give me when I said something he considered naive, a remark that showed my lack of sophistication, a thought that proved I didn’t see the world as clearly as he did.
His smile is nothing like Maeve’s.
Her smile is warm. It reaches her eyes. It crinkles the corners. It is the smile of someone who is glad to see you, who is happy you exist, who wants nothing from you but your presence.
Kieran’s smile is open. It is unguarded, uncalculated. It is the smile of someone who is simply being himself.
Their family’s laughter is genuine. It rises and falls like music, unforced, uncalculated, the sound of people who are comfortable with each other.
Julian’s smile is a dismissal.
It is the smile of a man who believes he knows better. Who believes you are being dramatic. Who believes that your feelings are an inconvenience, a problem to be solved, a hurdle to be overcome.
“Nora,” he says gently, as if I am struggling to grasp something obvious, “you don’t understand. People don’t just cheat without a reason. There’s always a deeper reason. A psychological wound. It’s not about… wanting another person. It’s about hating yourself.”
He places a hand over his heart, his eyes searching mine for understanding. “There must be something inside me… some trauma I haven’t faced. From my childhood, maybe. That’s why I hurt you. It wasn’t about her. It was about my pain.”
I just stare at him.
My pain.
I think of the stories Julian told me over the years. Stories of comfort, never hardship.
A childhood of abundance. Summers at the lake. Winters by the fire. A mother who baked cookies and a father who taught him to fish. The details shifted depending on his mood, but the shape was always the same: a life untouched by the kind of hunger I knew.
His mother always asked if he needed more money. His father clapped him on the shoulder and called himsonlike the word was a medal. They never yelled. They never hit. They just gave.
There was a vacation home in the mountains, a new car every other year, a snapped finger brought a solution to any problem. His stories were not of hiding from fists, but of sailing trips and school pranks.
His deepest wound, once confessed after too much wine, was that his nanny left when he was seven. He told me this on oursecond anniversary. His voice had grown thick, his eyes wet.She just left. No warning. No goodbye. I came home from school and she was gone. He had looked at me like he was sharing something sacred, something vulnerable.
I nodded. I told him that I understood, that it must have been hard. Inside, I felt the distance between us.
His wound was a nanny who left. Mine was a father who stayed.
He went to a prestigious university, paid for by his parents’ legacy. A job was waiting for him when he graduated, a door held open by family connections.
Then came our marriage. Arranged, elegant, a transaction. Our fathers had known each other for years before any of us knew we would be connected. Business, I think—or the kind of social proximity that passes for friendship between men who are useful to each other.
They moved in the same circles. Attended the same dinners. Shook the same hands. My father had a way of performing respectability so convincingly that men like Julian’s father—men who valued the performance above all else—mistook it for character. They liked each other. They trusted each other. And when the time came, it seemed natural to them both that the arrangement should be made.
I remember that meeting. The three of them across the table. Julian’s father in his tailored suit, his mother in her pearl necklace, Julian himself quiet and smiling. They asked about my cooking, my cleaning, my willingness to travel. They did not ask about my hopes, my fears, my dreams. They sat me down to instruct me on how best to support his career, manage his home, and uphold his family’s reputation.
He’s always been so sensitive, she had said, patting my hand.You’ll need to be patient with him. He feels things deeply.
My father had the same kind of life. Not as rich, but he never wanted for anything. His parents adored him. They just hated my mother.
