Seventeen was the year we started dating. Which meant whatever this was, it wasn’t new. It wasn’t a midlife thing, a stress thing, a moment of weakness. It was old. Practiced. Patient.
My phone buzzed against my thigh. Where are you? Everything okay? Then, four minutes later: You’re scaring me a little. Please just tell me you’re safe.
I typed and deleted a dozen replies before finally sending: I’m fine. Needed air. Home soon.
It wasn’t fine. Nothing about the drive home felt fine — the porch light looked too warm, too welcoming, like a trap dressed up as a home. I sat in the driveway for ten minutes before I could make myself go inside.
For three days I became a detective in my own marriage, and I hated every part of it. I told myself I wasn’t snooping, I was checking, as though the distinction mattered. I went through the hall closet, the box of old cables in the garage, the shoebox under his side of the bed that turned out to contain nothing but expired coupons and a single sock.
