How many women were entering the new employment program?
Would the grant cover another counselor?
How was Denise doing?
Once, he remembered the name of our program director.
Of course I noticed.
When you have been thirsty for years, half a glass of water can look generous.
Three months after the ceremony, Mark planned dinner for us.
Just us.
He bought steaks.
Roasted potatoes.
Wine.
He even put candles on the table.
One smelled like vanilla.
The other said Ocean Breeze.
Together, they smelled like a cupcake drowning at sea.
But I appreciated the effort.
“This is nice,” I told him.
He smiled.
“I can still surprise you.”
“I’d forgotten you knew where the stove was.”
“Counseling Clare is mean.”
“Counseling Clare is rested.”
We laughed.
For a little while, I remembered us.
Not the recent version.
The old one.
The couple who had eaten pizza on cardboard in the basement of Second Chapter House before it even had a proper sign.
I allowed myself to hope.
Then Patricia called.
Mark looked at his phone.
“Let it go,” I said.
He did.
It rang again.
Then a third time.
He sighed and answered.
“Mom?”
I could hear Patricia’s voice from across the table.
Her television remote was not working.
Mark suggested changing the batteries.
She had.
He suggested turning the television off manually.
Apparently that solution was unacceptable.
Then I heard her say, “Can you just come over?”
Mark looked at me.
The old version of me would have rescued him from choosing.
I would have smiled and said, “Go ahead.”
Then he could leave while telling himself I had approved.
This time, I waited.
He covered the phone.
“It’ll only take twenty minutes.”
I looked at him.
He knew.
I could see that he knew.
That almost made it worse.
“Okay,” I said.
He hesitated.
Then he picked up his keys.
“I’ll be right back.”
He wasn’t.
The steak was cold when he returned.
So were the potatoes.
I sat at the table while the candles burned halfway down.
Mark walked in and stopped.
“Clare.”
“I know.”
“She couldn’t get the television working.”
“I know.”
“She was upset.”
“I know.”
He pulled out the chair across from me.
“I messed up.”
“Yes.”
That was the night I finally understood.
Mark had changed enough to feel guilty.
He had not changed enough to choose differently.
Six months after the awards ceremony, I asked for a separation.
There was no screaming.
No dramatic suitcase on the lawn.
No perfect speech.
Afterward, I went into the bathroom, turned on the faucet, and cried quietly.
Even at fifty-two, some habits survive longer than others.
I worried about the house.
Retirement.
Insurance.
Christmas.
Where Mark would live.
Whether Melissa would hate me.
Whether I had confused boundaries with selfishness.
Some mornings, I missed my old life so badly that I wanted to take everything back.
Then I realized I did not miss the life itself.
I missed knowing what tomorrow would look like.
Those are different things.
About a month after Mark moved into an apartment, Melissa came to see me.
She carried a brown paper shopping bag.
“What is that?”
She put it on my kitchen table.
“Something I should have brought you months ago.”
Inside were pieces of midnight-blue fabric.
My gown.
I touched one of the larger pieces.
“I thought Patricia threw these away.”
“She did.”
Melissa looked at the table.
“I took them out of the trash.”
I waited.
Then she said, “I watched her do it.”
“I know.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“I mean I was there before you came home. I watched her start.”
That was new.
Her eyes filled.
“I stood there and did nothing.”
I did not rescue her from the silence.