“Why?”
“Because it happened.”
She looked at me.
“I thought you'd hate me.”
“I did for a while.”
“And now?”
I considered lying.
Instead:
“I don't think about you enough to hate you.”
That hurt her.
I saw it.
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“I probably deserved that.”
“I wasn't trying to punish you.”
“I know.”
She sat on an old work stool.
“Ryan and I haven't spoken in months.”
I said nothing.
“He got transferred out of the regional office.”
Still nothing.
“He blamed me.”
“I’m not surprised.”
Lauren gave a bitter smile.
“No. I guess not.”
Then she said something I had not expected.
“I think I chose him because he made me feel like the version of myself I wanted to be.”
“What version?”
“Important.”
I leaned against the workbench.
“You were important.”
“Not like that.”
“Like what?”
“Expensive restaurants. Clients. People knowing our names. He'd walk into a place and act like everyone needed to notice him.”
She laughed softly.
“I thought that meant confidence.”
“And now?”
“I think he was terrified nobody would notice.”
That was more perceptive than I expected.
She continued.
“And I think I became the same way.”
For a few seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then Lauren asked:
“Why didn't you ever tell me how successful the company was?”
There were many answers.
Some flattering to me.
Some not.
The honest one was complicated.
“At first, because it wasn't successful.”
She nodded.
“Then it grew.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“I liked having something that didn't depend on whether anyone was impressed.”
She looked down.
“And me?”
I thought about it.
“Eventually, I think I stopped telling you things because I expected you to dismiss them.”
“That isn't fair.”
“No.”
I nodded.
“It wasn't.”
She looked surprised.
I continued.
“I checked out too, Lauren.”
Her eyes filled slightly.
“That doesn't excuse what you did.”
“I know.”
“But I wasn't a great husband by the end.”
She whispered:
“No.”
It should have made me angry.
Instead, I appreciated the honesty.
“I thought providing was enough.”
“It wasn't.”
“I know that now.”
“And I thought feeling unhappy meant I was entitled to hurt you.”
She wiped at her cheek.
“It didn't.”
“No.”
She stood.
For the first time since the divorce began, we looked at our marriage without trying to win the argument about why it died.
That did not save it.
Some things become clearer only after they can no longer be repaired.
Before she left the garage, Lauren touched the wedding album once more.
“I’m sorry about that night.”
I believed her.
That was new.
“I know.”
“I mean all of it.”
“I know.”
“Do you forgive me?”
I took a while.
“I don't know.”
She nodded.
“That’s fair.”
“But I don't need you to suffer.”
She looked up.