"I'm not saying you're easy."
"Thank you."
"I'm saying I could argue with you without feeling the relationship disappeared underneath me."
That was one of the kindest things anyone had ever said about our marriage.
And one of the saddest, because it revealed what she had once believed relationships were.
"I wish you'd told me sooner," I said.
"I know."
"Not just tonight."
"I know."
"Years ago."
"I know."
"We could've talked about this."
She nodded.
"I was ashamed."
"I understand."
"I don't think you do."
"Then explain."
Amy took a breath.
"When someone leaves a bad relationship, people understand."
"Usually."
"When someone leaves because they simply don't want that life anymore, people demand a better reason."
I nodded slowly.
"They want villains."
"Exactly."
"Peter wasn't one."
"No."
"His family wasn't completely evil."
"No."
"You just didn't want to marry him."
She looked at me.
"Eventually, yes."
"And that's enough."
Her face crumpled.
I realized nobody had said it to her that simply.
Not even herself.
"You were allowed to change your mind."
She began crying again.
"You were allowed to leave."
I squeezed her hand.
"Even three weeks before the wedding."
She covered her mouth.
"Even if people lost deposits."
A broken laugh.
"Even if his mother hated you."
Another.
"Even if Peter was devastated."
She nodded through tears.
"You weren't obligated to marry somebody because everyone had already bought plane tickets."
Amy laughed so hard she had to wipe her face.
"That's a terrible way to say it."
"It's true."
"It is."
We sat there smiling at each other while both of us cried a little.
Marriage is strange.
Sometimes the most intimate moment of a decade happens in a nearly empty restaurant while staff quietly stack chairs in the next room.
We paid.
I carried the boxed cake.
Amy took my arm as we stepped outside.
The rain had stopped.
The city looked polished beneath streetlights.
Our apartment was a little over a mile away.
Normally we would have taken a cab in the cold.
That night, Amy asked to walk.
We moved slowly.
For the first block, neither of us spoke.
Amy leaned against my shoulder.
Her steps were slightly unsteady from the wine.
"You okay?"
"Embarrassed."
"About?"
"All of it."
"Don't be."
"I'm thirty-seven and got drunk enough to confess my canceled wedding like I'm in a soap opera."
"You didn't get drunk."
"I had three glasses."
"For you, that's basically Las Vegas."
She laughed.
Then rested her head against me again.
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"Not making me feel small."
I stopped walking.
Amy looked at me.
"What?"
"Did Peter make you feel small?"
She thought.
"Sometimes."
"Did your family?"
"Sometimes."
"Do I?"
Her eyes widened.
"No."
"Never?"
"Daniel..."
"Tell me."
She looked uncomfortable.
"Sometimes when you're certain about something, you talk like disagreement is just a temporary stage before I understand you're right."
I stared.
"That's awful."
"It's not always."