That’s not what happened.
What happened was slower. And harder. And, I think, better.
We started couples therapy in March. Ben found a counselor, but he let me choose. I picked a woman named Dr. Okafor, who had a fat orange cat that slept on the windowsill of her office and who never let either of us get away with anything.
In our first session, I talked for forty-five minutes straight. About the seventy-one tests. About the Clomid and the dye and the mirror. About the bathroom where I apologized to him. Ben sat on the other end of the couch and listened to every word, and he didn’t defend himself once.
When I was done, Dr. Okafor turned to him.
“What do you want to say to her?”
He thought for a long time.
“I don’t want to say anything,” he said. “I want her to keep talking. I spent six years not letting her know the truth. I think I owe her at least six years of listening.”
