“You said you’d be home.”
“I had a client.”
“I know, but you could’ve called.”
He gave me the familiar patient smile he used whenever he believed I was being unreasonable.
“Please don’t turn a busy day into a problem.”
I apologized.
Even now, I find that difficult to explain.
I was the one waiting.
I was the one disappointed.
Yet somehow, I ended up apologizing for wanting him to keep his promise.
Little by little, that became the pattern of our marriage.
Daniel’s schedule mattered.
My schedule adjusted.
His ambitions were important.
Mine could wait.
And whenever I began to wonder whether I was asking too little of life, he’d remind me how fortunate we were.
“We have a beautiful home, Claire. We have stability. What more do you want?”
I didn’t know how to answer.
Because what I wanted wasn’t another vacation or a larger house.
I wanted him to look at me the way he had when we first met.
I wanted him to ask about my day and listen to the answer.
I wanted to feel that we were building a life together rather than maintaining one that had already been decided.
The changes became more noticeable during the year before that Valentine’s Day.
Daniel started working later.
His phone developed new passwords.
He began placing it face down whenever we ate together.
Sometimes he left the room to answer calls.
If I asked who was calling, he said it was a client.
Once, I noticed an unfamiliar floral scent on his coat.
I mentioned it casually.
He laughed.
“Claire, I meet with people all day. Somebody probably hugged me at an event.”
I nodded.
I wanted to believe him.
A few weeks later, I asked whether we could plan a weekend away.
We hadn’t traveled together without work obligations in nearly two years.
Daniel was scrolling through his phone.
“Maybe next month.”
“You said that last month.”
He sighed.
“Can we not make this a whole discussion?”
I stopped talking.
I told myself marriage had seasons.
People became distracted.
Businesses demanded attention.
Perhaps we were simply going through a difficult period.
But there was a difference between going through a difficult season together and being left alone inside one.
By February, I’d begun to feel that difference every day.
Still, I wanted Valentine’s Day to be special.
I made a reservation at a restaurant called The Linden Room, a beautifully restored downtown building where we’d celebrated our fifth anniversary.
Daniel used to love it.
He’d once told me the lighting made everyone look like they belonged in an old romantic movie.
I reserved a table for seven and bought a new pair of earrings.
Then, on Valentine’s morning, I mentioned our plans while he was making coffee.
He barely looked up.
“Tonight’s not going to work.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“I have an important client meeting. It might run late.”
“But I made reservations.”
He opened the refrigerator.
“Then cancel them.”
I stood beside the kitchen island, holding my coffee cup.
“Daniel, it’s Valentine’s Day.”
He gave me a tired look.
“Claire, we’re not teenagers. We don’t need to celebrate every date on the calendar.”
I felt the familiar disappointment settle into my chest.
“Could we go somewhere afterward?”
“I really don’t know when I’ll be finished.”
Then he kissed my forehead, picked up his briefcase, and left.
I stood in the kitchen long after his car disappeared.
For several minutes, I considered canceling the reservation.
Then I looked toward the black dress hanging on my bedroom door.
I’d bought it months earlier and never worn it.
Something about that dress made me decide I wasn’t staying home.
I wasn’t going to spend another evening waiting for someone who had already told me he wasn’t coming.
So I went to work.
I finished my meetings.
I answered emails.
Then I came home, showered, fixed my hair, and put on the black dress.
I wore the pearl earrings my mother had given me on my wedding day.
Before leaving, I looked at myself in the bedroom mirror.
I looked like a woman going somewhere special.
And I decided that was enough.
At The Linden Room, the hostess informed me that my original table was still available.
I thanked her but asked whether I could sit at the bar instead.
I wasn’t ready to occupy a candlelit table set for two.