Our passion had begun to ebb once he’d graduated from law school and gone to work. Truth be told, Richard practically lived at his office while building his practice, which then left me little opportunity to be either an outstanding or a poor wife.
Then Katy started showing signs of extreme sensitivities around four—a hyperawareness of others’ opinions, banging her head against a wall when she made a mistake, crying too easily over every little thing. Richard called them tantrums, but I worried she might have deeper issues. Managing her behavior and schedule required more and more of my attention, exhausting me.
Between Richard’s long hours, my volunteerism, and Katy’s needs, it seemed as if sex became scheduled like every other obligation, and our conversations veered toward efficiency rather than intimacy. But we’d had Katy to connect us, and I thought we’d rediscover each other and spontaneity once she went to college.
The actual result? Richard now enjoys a thriving practice and new family while I’m living in a chronic state of confusion with a teen who constantly misconstrues me.
He’s still handsome, though: thick dark hair with hints of silver, cheekbones I envy, and a gorgeous mouth. Vital, too, thanks to vigorous exercise and boundless energy. Most things come easily to him, as with Katy. Maybe that’s why neither of them is patient with how hard the rest of us work for the things that matter.
“Seems I can’t do anything right today.” He sits back. It saddens me that this exchange has probably reaffirmed his relief to be ditching me. I bury every bit of grief beneath the thick seams of resentment and righteous indignation his adultery has handed me.
To look at him now, I wouldn’t recognize the man who pursued me during our junior year at the University of Richmond. He’d been relentless, coming around the studio where I’d painted, or bringing his books along to the James River Park’s green spaces where I’d sketched. Like my gram, he’d encouraged my wildest artistic dreams. That praise, the belly kisses and hushed whispers as we lay naked and spent, the love notes stuck in my backpack, the flowers he’d bring for no reason—all his ardor tricked me into believing that, despite being twenty, naive, and pregnant, we could build a happy life together—a family like the one I’d lost when my mother died.
Since then, I’ve come to call that zeal his “acquisition mode,” as he’s wooed new clients with the same intensity. His surname suits him, because he much prefers the chase to maintenance.
Lauren will be in my shoes soon enough. The day some major new client or other woman crosses his radar, I’ll have the last laugh. Of course, I’ll feel bad for her two young children, who’ll be casualties of his whims. Like Katy.
If Richard and I were alone now, I might literally reach across the table to slap that self-pitying look off his face. Look at him sitting there as if everything is about him. He doesn’t get it and never will. My mood—the root of my concern—is about Katy.
Yes, I’m a woman in my prime. A woman of some means. A woman with talent, some might even say. But first and foremost I am a mother.
“What’d you do with the furniture? It can’t all fit in Marie’s old house.” Richard’s question temporarily throws me.
“Severed Ties took what we didn’t need.” The high-end consignment store pays the original owner 50 percent of its profit on sales. “Whatever I make will be put toward Katy’s college fund.”
“Keep it.” His full lips bend into a conciliatory smile. “I can pay her tuition.”
Here he goes again, sounding generous when really he’s trying to buy me off so he can boast to others about how fair he’s been. He’s never understood this about me: I don’t care about hoarding money or things. Never did and never will. “And I can afford to contribute.”
Some might consider me lucky because, along with my suitcases, I take a comfortable nest egg and alimony—enough that I’m not panicked about establishing a career after all these years at home. But he’s still gotten off pretty cheaply for betraying me and our old dreams. Naturally, I don’t share my feelings or let him see my pain.
“Fine, Anne.” He rolls his eyes and checks his watch. “Jesus, I’m trying to be a decent guy.”
Too little, too late.
A laundry list of insults cycles through my mind like ticker tape, but I literally bite my tongue when another image of Katy’s splotchy face from this morning flickers through my mind. All the time spent filling her life with love and opportunity means very little in light of one inescapable reality: by letting our family fall apart, Richard and I have fundamentally failed our daughter.
Condemning my husband is pointless. However we got here, the result is the same.
The brokers return, confirm the payments, congratulate us all, and quickly show us out. Even though I never loved that house, the finality of what’s happening hits me like a board to the face. My married life and home are truly lost to me. There will be no going back. No fixing what broke. I’m starting over at thirty-seven. That prospect festers like an ulcer. All I know is how to be a wife and mother.
My hands tremble for a split second as I grapple with my purse strap. Please, God, don’t let Richard see my strength falter. His affair humiliated me. He can never know how badly he’s hurt me, too.
The buyers walk ahead of us, holding hands. The woman is decked out in a Trina Turk “Vanah” dress, diamonds and sapphires in her ears and around her neck and wrists, and cute platform espadrilles. Her husband is attractive in a Tom Hardy way and carries his success like Richard does—chin up, shoulders proud.
I can picture him—much like my soon-to-be ex—proudly moving into that home that has three times more space than any family needs. What he doesn’t yet know is that four stories and a dozen rooms make it too easy to slink away from each other for entire evenings. Bit by bit that disconnect—the physical space between each person—becomes the sort of emotional distance that loosens family bonds. Not that you see it happening in the moment.
I’ve often wondered whether Richard and I might’ve stayed together if we’d remained in the two-thousand-square-foot home we’d previously owned. Questions like that keep me up nights.
A decade ago, we were excited. Happy. A young family on our way up. The problem with rising so high so fast? When you fall—and that fall will come, usually when you least expect it—you smack the ground so hard a part of you dies.
Once reanimated, you feel more like a roamer on The Walking Dead than a person.
Richard leans in as if he might kiss my cheek, but stops short when I flinch. “Good luck, Anne. Hope you don’t die of boredom in that small town.”
His condescension pricks the ugly bitterness that has blistered beneath my skin since his May confessional.
“Well, I survived life with you, so how bad can Potomac Point be?” I pat his shoulder twice. “Don’t worry about me. Save your energy for staying sane while Lauren has you stuck at home raising her young kids. I’ll be sure to send postcards from Paris and Prague to give you goals to look forward to in another twelve or fourteen years.”
I turn away and walk to my car without looking back so he can’t see my brave face slip. The truth is I’d wanted more kids but, after the agony of a late-term miscarriage, chose to focus all my love on Katy and her anxieties. Once she’d turned six, Richard no longer wanted to bring an infant into our lives. Another decision to regret, I suppose, because both Katy and I might be better off if we had another person in our shrinking family.