On Monday morning, I received a message from Nathan.
He asked whether I had time for a brief call later that day.
I replied that I did.
The message was short and professional.
There was no dramatic wording, no warning, and no suggestion that something had suddenly gone wrong.
Still, I found myself checking my phone more often than usual.
I disliked how quickly my mind could turn a simple message into a list of possible outcomes.
At nine, I made coffee.
At nine fifteen, I checked the phone.
At nine twenty, I put it in a drawer.
Then I took it out again.
I finally carried it upstairs and left it on the dresser while I showered.
When I came back down, the kitchen looked exactly as it had before.
The yellow flowers had begun to open.
The plant beside the window stood straight in its pot.
The scratch on the table caught the light.
Nothing in the room had changed because I was waiting for a phone call.
I sat down and opened my notebook.
Instead of writing about the board, I wrote a grocery list.
Milk.
Eggs.
Rice.
Dish soap.
It was a small way to remind myself that life continued while I waited.
Nathan called at eleven.
He explained that the review was proceeding through the appropriate channels.
There were no final findings to share, and he did not want me to interpret the absence of an update as either good news or bad news.
I appreciated his directness.
“Is there anything I need to do?” I asked.
“Not at the moment. Keep your records, and let me know if you receive a request for information or if anything relevant comes to your attention.”
“Should I tell Aaron we spoke?”
“You are not required to give him a report of every conversation you have with your attorney. If he asks about the process, you can tell him that there is no conclusion yet.”
I looked at the notebook.
“I don't want him to think I'm hiding something.”
“Then don't misrepresent anything. But privacy is not the same as dishonesty.”
I wrote that sentence down.
After the call, I felt calmer.
Not because I had received an answer.
Because I had been reminded that I could wait for one without trying to manufacture it.
That evening, Aaron arrived home at six thirty.
He put his briefcase on the entry table and came into the kitchen.
“How was your day?”
“Fine. I spoke to Nathan.”
He stopped near the counter.
“About the review?”
“Yes.”
“Anything new?”
“No final findings. The process is continuing.”
He looked at me as if he expected more.
I waited.
“That's all?” he asked.
“That's all I know.”
He pulled out a chair and sat down.
“I keep thinking about it.”
“I imagine you do.”
“It's difficult not knowing what people are saying about me.”
“I understand.”
He studied my face.
“Do you?”
“Yes. I know uncertainty is hard.”
“Then you know why I want this over with.”
“I do.”
He looked relieved for a moment.
Then I added, “But wanting it to be over doesn't mean we can skip the process.”
His expression changed.
“I wasn't asking you to skip anything.”
“I know. I'm explaining why I can't promise you when it will end.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“I feel as if I can't talk to you without everything becoming formal.”
I set down the knife I had been using to cut vegetables.
“I'm trying to be careful because this matters. But I don't want our marriage to become a courtroom either.”
“Then what are we supposed to do?”
“Talk about the things we can talk about. Be honest about the things we don't know. And let the people responsible for the review do their work.”
He looked toward the window.
“I hate this.”
“I hate it, too.”
I meant it.
I did not enjoy watching someone I loved become frightened and defensive.
I did not enjoy feeling that every conversation might become an argument.
I did not enjoy the thought that the review could put pressure on his career.
But I also did not want to confuse his discomfort with proof that I had done something wrong.
Aaron stood and walked to the sink.
He ran water over his hands, though they were not dirty.
After a moment, he said, “I'm sorry.”
I looked at him.
“For what?”
“For making you feel like you have to explain every word.”
The apology was quiet.
I did not rush to tell him that it was all right.
“It has been difficult,” I said.
“I know.”
He turned off the tap.
“I don't want to keep doing that.”
“Then we need to practice talking differently.”
He nodded.
I returned to the vegetables.
We made dinner together.
Aaron washed the lettuce while I prepared the dressing.
He asked me how much salt I wanted in the soup, and I told him.
We did not discuss the review again.
For the first time that day, I felt that I could breathe without measuring every word.
After dinner, we sat at the table with the yellow flowers between us.
Aaron told me about a difficult decision he had faced at work.
He did not name the people involved, and I did not ask for details.
He described the problem and admitted that he was unsure which option would be best.
I listened.
Then I asked what information he still needed.
He thought about it and answered.
We talked through the choices without either of us pretending that the right answer was obvious.
When we finished, he looked at me.
“You've always been good at that.”
“At what?”
“Helping me slow down when I get stuck.”
I felt the familiar pull to become useful.
To turn his compliment into another responsibility.
I stopped myself.
“I'm glad it helped,” I said. “But I can't be the person who solves every difficult thing for you.”
He nodded.
“I know.”
I wasn't certain he fully understood.
Still, he had not argued.
That night, I called Laura again.
We spoke for twenty minutes.
I told her about the flowers and the soup, but I did not turn the conversation into a detailed account of Aaron's behavior.
I wanted to talk about other things, too.
Laura told me about a recipe she was trying and a book she thought I would enjoy.
Before we hung up, she asked how I was feeling.
“More like myself,” I said.
“That sounds good.”
“It is.”
“Does that mean things are better with Aaron?”
I considered the question.
“Some things are better. Some things are still uncertain.”
“Can you live with that for now?”
“Yes.”
“Then maybe that's enough for now.”
After the call, I wrote in my notebook.
I don't need a final answer to recognize a real change.
Then I added another line.
I don't need a small change to pretend the whole problem is solved.
Both sentences felt important.
They kept me from dismissing progress.
They also kept me from using progress as an excuse to stop asking for what I needed.
The next morning, Aaron left a message before his first meeting.
He told me he would be working late and gave me an approximate time he expected to return.
I read it once.
Then I replied, “Thanks for letting me know. I'll see you when you get home.”
I put the phone down.
I did not check the clock every ten minutes.
I made dinner for myself and ate at the table.
Afterward, I washed my plate and sat by the window with my book.
At nine, I heard a car pass.
At nine thirty, the neighbor's porch light came on.
At ten, I went upstairs to get ready for bed.
Aaron came home a little after ten thirty.
He found me in the bedroom, reading.
“I'm sorry it's late.”
“You told me you would be late.”
“I know. I still wanted to say it.”
I put my bookmark between the pages.
“How was your evening?”
“Long.”
He loosened his tie.
“Did you eat?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He stood beside the bed, looking uncertain.
I waited.
“I don't know whether you're happier when I'm here now,” he said.
I thought about the question.
“I am happier when we can be together without me feeling that I have to watch for you to leave.”
He sat down.
“I don't want you watching for that.”
“Then I need time to learn that I don't have to.”
He nodded.
I turned off my bedside lamp.
We settled beneath the covers.
A few minutes later, Aaron reached for my hand.
I took his.
I did not tell him that everything would be fine.
He did not ask me to.
For that night, we let the uncertainty remain where it was.
Click here to continue reading: PART 15: THE THINGS WE COULD NO LONGER HIDE
The Night I Stopped Pretending My Marriage Was Fine and Began Looking at the Life My Husband Thought He Controlled
Part 14 of 20
