Over the next few days, Grant became careful around me.
He asked whether I wanted coffee.
He told me when he expected to be home.
He stopped leaving his phone on the kitchen counter.
The changes were small, but I noticed them.
They reminded me of the early months of our marriage, when he had seemed eager to make sure I was comfortable.
Back then, I had believed his attention meant I mattered to him.
Now I wondered whether he was simply trying to prevent another conversation he couldn't control.
One evening, he brought home dinner from a restaurant we used to visit when we were dating.
He placed the bag on the counter and looked at me.
"I thought we could eat together."
I stared at the familiar paper bag.
It had been years since we had brought food home from that place.
The smell of warm bread drifted from the open top.
For a moment, I remembered sitting across from him at a small table, laughing because he had ordered something too spicy and refused to admit it.
I remembered the way he had reached across the table to steal a piece of bread from my plate.
I remembered how easy it had been to imagine a future with him.
Then I looked at the bag again.
"What made you choose this place?"
He hesitated.
"I thought you'd like it."
That wasn't an answer.
But I didn't press him.
We sat down and ate.
The conversation stayed on ordinary things.
A problem at work.
A repair that needed doing.
A television program he had watched.
He asked about my day.
I answered.
For nearly half an hour, we behaved like a couple whose biggest problem was deciding what to watch after dinner.
It would have been comforting if I hadn't known what was waiting outside that performance.
When we finished, Grant gathered the plates.
He had rarely done that without being asked.
I watched him carry them to the sink.
Then he turned toward me.
"Can we talk now?"
I felt the old tension return.
"About what?"
"About us."
I folded my napkin.
"All right."
He sat down again.
"I've been thinking about everything."
I waited.
"I know I hurt you."
I looked at him.
He continued.
"I don't expect you to forgive me overnight."
That was closer to an apology than anything he had said before.
But he still hadn't mentioned what he intended to do.
I asked the question plainly.
"Are you going to marry Savannah?"
His face tightened.
"I don't know."
I stared at him.
He had already proposed.
She was pregnant.
They had announced a date.
Yet he was sitting across from me saying he didn't know whether he intended to marry her.
"Does she know you're uncertain?"
He looked down.
"Things are complicated."
I almost laughed.
The word seemed to follow him everywhere.
Complicated.
Our marriage was complicated.
His affair was complicated.
The pregnancy was complicated.
His engagement was complicated.
Every situation became complicated when he had to explain a choice he wanted to keep making.
"Grant, she is expecting your child."
"I know."
"You asked her to marry you."
"I know."
"Then what exactly is uncertain?"
He leaned back in his chair.
"I don't want to make another decision while everything is so emotional."
I looked at him.
He was asking for time.
Again.
He wanted the benefit of an engagement without the responsibility of being certain.
He wanted the comfort of our home while he decided what kind of life he preferred.
He wanted me to remain available while he sorted out his feelings about another woman.
I had been doing some version of that for months without knowing it.
I was not going to continue.
"You need to decide what you want," I said.
He nodded quickly.
"I will."
"When?"
His expression changed.
"I can't give you a deadline."
I felt the last of my patience begin to thin.
"You gave Savannah one."
He stared at me.
I continued before he could answer.
"You chose a wedding date. You announced it. You made plans with her. You were certain enough to put a ring on her finger."
He looked away.
"That was different."
"How?"
He rubbed his hands together.
"I thought I knew what I was doing."
The honesty of that sentence surprised me.
It was the closest he had come to admitting that his choices had not been accidents.
He had thought he knew what he was doing.
He had believed he could move from one life into another without facing the consequences of the first.
I studied him.
"And now?"
He didn't answer.
I stood up.
"I can't decide this for you."
He looked at me.
"I never asked you to."
I paused.
Then I said, "You keep asking me to wait while you decide."
He opened his mouth, but I walked away before he could turn the conversation into another argument about my tone.
I went upstairs and closed the bedroom door.
I wasn't trying to punish him.
I needed space to hear my own thoughts.
I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at my left hand.
The ring was still there.
I turned it once with my thumb.
The gesture had become a habit, something I did whenever I was trying to make sense of the difference between what I remembered and what I knew.
I thought about taking it off.
I didn't.
Not that night.
I wasn't ready to decide what it meant to remove it.
I was beginning to understand that I didn't have to settle every question at once.
I could take one step without knowing the shape of the whole road.
The next morning, Grant left before I woke.
There was a note beside the coffee machine.
He had written that he would be home late and that I shouldn't wait for dinner.
I read it twice.
Then I folded it and placed it beside the machine.
The message itself was ordinary.
The difference was that I no longer read it as reassurance.
I read it as information.
He would be home late.
I would decide what to do with my evening.
That was all.
I made coffee and stood by the window while the machine cooled.
Outside, a delivery driver carried a box across the neighboring driveway.
A car passed slowly.
Somewhere down the street, a dog barked.
I thought about how much energy I had spent trying to predict Grant's movements.
When would he come home?
Who was he messaging?
What did his silence mean?
Had he already spoken to Savannah?
Was he telling her that he needed more time?
I could spend the entire day building questions around things I couldn't see.
Or I could accept that his decisions were his responsibility.
I chose the second.
That afternoon, I went through the house and gathered the papers I needed for my next appointment.
I checked the date and time.
I made sure I had everything in order.
Then I placed the folder in my handbag.
I wasn't doing it to frighten Grant.
I wasn't trying to force him to make a choice.
I was taking care of myself.
When he came home that evening, he found me reading at the table.
He looked at my handbag.
"Are you going somewhere?"
"Tomorrow."
"Where?"
"I have an appointment."
His face went still.
"With your attorney?"
I closed the book.
"Yes."
He stared at me.
For a moment, I thought he might demand to know what I had discussed or what I intended to do.
Instead, he sat down slowly.
"You've already made up your mind."
I considered the question.
I had made up my mind about some things.
I would no longer pretend I didn't know about Savannah.
I would no longer let Grant's uncertainty become my responsibility.
I would no longer delay getting advice because I was afraid of what the truth might mean.
But I had not decided every detail of my future.
I didn't need to.
"I'm making decisions one at a time," I said.
He looked down at the table.
"I thought we were going to work through this."
I felt a quiet sadness settle over me.
He still believed the important question was whether I would stay.
He had not yet understood that I was no longer willing to remain in a marriage where he could make promises to another woman and ask me to preserve the appearance of ours.
"You can't work through something with me if you're still asking me to wait while you decide whether you want me."
He looked up.
I held his gaze.
"I need to know what I'm doing with my life, Grant. I can't put everything on hold because you're uncertain."
He didn't answer.
I picked up my book and returned to reading.
It wasn't a dramatic moment.
No one shouted.
No one slammed a door.
But for the first time, I felt that my life was moving in a direction I had chosen.
Click here to continue reading: PART 8: By the Time I Put the Folder Back in My Bag, I Had Stopped Mistaking His Fear of Consequences for Love
I Thought I Was Buying Something for Our Future Until I Heard My Husband Laugh Behind Me
Part 7 of 12
