Marriage
“I asked you to go to Yellowstone last summer.”
She waved her hand.
“That isn’t the point.”
“You said you didn’t want to waste vacation days.”
“Exactly. You always make everything practical.”
I studied her.
She had once loved that about me.
When the furnace died during our first winter, practical had been reassuring.
When her father needed surgery and insurance refused part of the claim, practical had been useful.
When she lost her job during the pandemic and cried
at the dining room table because she thought we would lose the house, practical had paid the mortgage.
But people often rename
virtues once they stop loving the person who possesses them.
Dependable becomes boring.
Careful becomes cowardly.
Quiet becomes weak.
“I want a divorce,” Claire said.
I nodded.
Her eyes widened.
“That’s it?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know!”
“You already chose.”
She stared at me.
Maybe she expected me to beg.
That disturbed me more than the affair.
“Have your lawyer send the paperwork,” I said.
I walked upstairs.
Twenty minutes later I came down carrying one duffel bag.
Claire stood in the kitchen.
“You’re actually leaving?”
“You asked me to.”
“This is your house too.”
“I know.”
Her expression hardened.
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“Derek says you’ll try to take half.”
I stopped.
And there it was.
Money.
It always arrives eventually.
“The house is marital property,” I said. “We split the equity.”
“You barely care about this place.”
“I care about what I paid into it.”
“My salary—”
“Paid utilities and groceries most years. I paid the mortgage.”
She looked surprised.
That should have warned me.
After fourteen years, my wife did not know who had been paying our mortgage.
