No questions about whether I still loved him.
The next morning, I packed a suitcase and stayed with Nora.
Three weeks became six.
I went home occasionally for clothes.
Daniel and I had dinner twice.
Public places at first.
Neutral territory.
We talked about practical things.
Bills.
The house.
My follow-up appointments.
His therapy.
Eventually we talked about our marriage.
Not with the fantasy that one conversation would repair it.
We simply began naming things.
I told him how often I had agreed simply because his disappointment exhausted me.
He told me how expertly he had disguised control as concern, including from himself.
“I never thought of myself as controlling,” he said once.
“Most people probably don’t.”
“I thought controlling husbands were men who shouted.”
“You didn’t need to.”
He nodded.
“You could make a room quiet instead.”
He looked down.
“I know.”
I didn’t comfort him.
That was new too.
