"The next?"
"I lost my nerve."
I sighed.
"You could've told me before three glasses of wine."
"I know."
"Why tonight?"
"Because I decided I couldn't start the next ten years still hiding it."
That answer quieted me.
Amy wiped her eyes.
"I almost canceled the reservation three times."
"What?"
"This morning."
She gave a weak laugh.
"I thought maybe we could order Chinese food instead."
"You hate our Chinese place."
"I was desperate."
"Why didn't you cancel?"
"Because I knew exactly what I'd do."
"What?"
"Wait another year."
I nodded.
Then another.
Then another.
Secrets often survive not because people actively decide to lie every day.
They survive because telling tomorrow feels easier than telling today.
Eventually tomorrow becomes years.
I understood that.
It didn't mean I liked it.
"I'm angry," I said.
Amy's face fell.
"I know."
"I'm not angry that you were engaged."
She nodded.
"I'm not even angry that you loved him."
Another nod.
"I'm angry you met him and didn't tell me."
"I know."
"And I'm angry that your family knew something important about you that I didn't."
Her eyes filled again.
"That's fair."
"I'm also angry you decided for me that I would judge you."
That one hit her hardest.
She looked down.
"I did."
"You didn't give me a chance."
"No."
"That's not trust."
"I know."
I pulled my hand back.
"But..."
Amy waited.
"I'm also trying to imagine being twenty-four and having an entire community tell you that choosing yourself made you selfish."
She looked at me.
"And I understand how that could become shame."
Her mouth trembled.
"I hated myself for a long time."
"For leaving Peter?"
"Yes."
"Even after marrying me?"
"Especially after."
I frowned.
"Why?"
"Because you were good to me."
I almost laughed.
"That's backwards."
"I know."
She pressed her napkin between her hands.
"I kept thinking, 'What if Daniel knew what I did? What if he realized I'm capable of changing my mind about marriage?'"
"Amy, everyone is capable of changing their mind."
"I didn't feel like everyone."
"Because?"
"I had evidence."
"The canceled wedding."
"Yes."
I studied her.
"Did you ever want to leave me?"
The question frightened both of us.
Amy took time before answering.
"Want to leave?"
"Yes."
"There were days I wanted to be alone."
"That's not the same."
"I know."
"Were there moments you seriously considered ending our marriage?"
She looked directly at me.
"After the miscarriage."
I stopped breathing for a moment.
She continued before I could react.
"Not because I stopped loving you."
"Then why?"
"Because we were hurting each other."
That was true.
Those months had been the worst of our marriage.
I became obsessed with trying again.
Amy became terrified of pregnancy.
I interpreted her fear as rejection.
She interpreted my grief as pressure.
We stopped talking properly.
For three months we lived like people sharing a house while avoiding every room where pain might be waiting.
"How close were you?"