On Friday morning, Nathan called while I was watering the plant.
I set the watering can down and answered.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning, Claire. Do you have a few minutes?”
“Yes.”
He told me that the review process had moved forward, but he still did not have a final determination to share.
There were questions being considered and information being reviewed.
He wanted to make sure I understood that the process could take time.
“I understand,” I said.
I was beginning to mean it.
He reminded me not to speculate about the outcome or discuss the details casually with people connected to the company.
I told him I would follow his advice.
Before we ended the call, I asked whether there was anything else I needed to do.
“Not at present. If the people conducting the review need clarification from you, we'll handle that appropriately.”
“Thank you.”
After the call, I returned to the plant.
A small puddle had formed beneath the pot.
I wiped it with a cloth and moved the pot slightly away from the edge of the sill.
Then I went about my day.
I did not tell myself that the absence of a conclusion meant the review was going badly.
I did not tell myself it meant everything would be fine.
I simply accepted that I did not know.
That evening, Aaron came home earlier than usual.
He looked tired.
He put his briefcase down and loosened his tie.
“Did Nathan call you today?”
“Yes.”
He stood still.
“What did he say?”
“That the process is continuing. There isn't a final determination.”
Aaron looked toward the kitchen window.
“Michael spoke to me this afternoon.”
I waited.
“He said the audit committee is continuing to review the matter.”
“That sounds consistent with what Nathan told me.”
Aaron pulled out a chair and sat down.
“I hate not knowing what they're going to decide.”
“I know.”
“I keep thinking about every conversation I've had at work over the past few years. Every expense, every decision, every meeting.”
He looked at his hands.
“I can't tell whether I'm remembering things clearly or just worrying about everything.”
I sat across from him.
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
He looked up.
“Are you worried?”
“Yes.”
His expression tightened.
“About me?”
“About the process. About how it will affect you. About what the review may or may not establish. And about us.”
He stared at me.
“You're still worried about us?”
“Of course I am.”
“I thought things were getting better.”
“They are getting better in some ways.”
He leaned back.
“But not enough?”
I took a breath.
“I don't know how to measure it yet. We're talking more honestly. You're making an effort. I'm making changes in my own life. Those things matter.”
“Then why does it feel like you're still waiting for something bad to happen?”
I considered the question.
“Because I've spent a long time not knowing what to expect from you. That doesn't disappear in a few weeks.”
He looked down.
“I wish I could make you trust me again.”
“I do, too.”
The answer seemed to surprise him.
I continued.
“But I don't think you can make it happen by asking me to trust you. It has to grow from what we do, over time.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“I know you're right. I just wish it were faster.”
“So do I.”
We sat quietly.
I could see that he wanted me to promise that the review would turn out well.
I wanted the same thing.
But neither of us could decide its outcome by wanting it.
I reached for his hand.
He held mine.
For a moment, we did not speak.
Then he said, “I don't want this to destroy everything.”
“Neither do I.”
“What if it does?”
I looked at him.
“Then we'll have to face what actually happens. We can't live through every possible future before it arrives.”
He nodded slowly.
I had said something similar to myself many times.
It was harder to believe when I watched him struggle.
That night, we made dinner together.
Aaron chopped vegetables while I prepared the sauce.
We talked about ordinary things.
He told me a colleague had recommended a book.
I told him about a drawing exercise I wanted to try before the next class.
He asked whether I would show him the result.
“If I like it,” I said.
He smiled.
“Fair enough.”
After dinner, he helped me wash the dishes.
The kitchen was warm, and the window had fogged slightly above the sink.
He dried a plate and placed it in the cupboard.
Then he said, “I know this is going to sound selfish, but sometimes I wish you would tell me more about what you're thinking.”
I turned off the water.
“Why does that sound selfish?”
“Because I know you've needed privacy. But I miss feeling like I know everything about you.”
I looked at him for a long moment.
“Did you know everything about me before?”
He seemed ready to answer.
Then he stopped.
“No,” he admitted. “Probably not.”
“I want to share things with you. I do. But I don't want to feel that I have to explain every thought before I'm allowed to have it.”
He nodded.
“I understand.”
“I also want to hear what you're thinking. I don't want to be the only one doing the work of understanding.”
He looked at me.
“I've been afraid to talk because I don't know what you'll do with what I say.”
The honesty surprised me.
“Are you afraid I'll leave?”
“Yes.”
“I'm afraid of making the wrong decision, too.”
He lowered his eyes.
“I know.”
I squeezed his hand once before letting go.
“We can be afraid without making each other responsible for fixing it immediately.”
He stood quietly beside the sink.
Then he picked up another plate.
We finished the dishes.
On Saturday, Aaron asked whether I wanted to go for a drive.
I agreed.
We drove out beyond the busiest part of town and stopped at a small café beside a quiet road.
The place had mismatched chairs and a chalkboard menu.
We ordered coffee and sat near the window.
Aaron watched a couple at the next table sharing a pastry.
“I used to think being successful meant never having to worry about money again,” he said.
I waited.
“Then I thought it meant being able to make every problem go away.”
He stirred his coffee.
“I don't think either of those things is true.”
“What do you think now?”
He looked at me.
“I think I've spent too much time trying to control things I can't control. And too little time paying attention to what was happening right in front of me.”
I felt a quiet sadness.
“I wish you'd understood that earlier.”
“So do I.”
He did not add an excuse.
He did not explain how busy he had been or how much pressure he carried.
He simply let the regret exist.
I reached for my cup.
“It's not too late to pay attention now.”
He nodded.
“I know.”
We talked about the house, our families, and a trip we had once planned but never taken.
We did not make new travel arrangements.
Neither of us was ready to promise that far ahead.
Still, it felt good to talk about something beyond the board and the marriage.
On the drive home, Aaron asked whether I thought we could become happy again.
I looked through the windshield.
“I think happiness is possible.”
He glanced at me.
“Is that what you want?”
“Yes.”
“With me?”
I turned toward him.
“I want to find out whether we can build a life that makes both of us feel seen. I can't promise you the outcome, but I am willing to keep trying while that remains honest for me.”
He nodded.
“I can accept that.”
I hoped he meant it.
When we arrived home, I placed my sketchbook on the kitchen table.
I opened it to the page with the apple.
Aaron looked at it and laughed again.
I laughed, too.
The drawing had not improved.
That was part of why I liked it.
It reminded me that I could do something badly, enjoy it anyway, and return to it without turning the result into a judgment about my worth.
That evening, I wrote in the blue notebook.
I cannot control the review.
I cannot control Aaron's feelings.
I cannot control how quickly trust returns.
I can control whether I tell the truth, whether I keep my boundaries, and whether I continue to live while I wait.
I read the lines once.
Then I closed the notebook.
The answer had not arrived.
But I was no longer standing still in front of the door, waiting for someone else to open it.
Click here to continue reading: PART 19: THE CONVERSATION WE COULD FINALLY HAVE
The Night I Stopped Pretending My Marriage Was Fine and Began Looking at the Life My Husband Thought He Controlled
Part 18 of 20
