“So lawyers can’t have affairs?”
He became angry.
I apologized.
That became a pattern.
Then one Tuesday in March, Michael came home at 11:40 p.m.
The boys were asleep.
I was at the kitchen table surrounded by research notes.
He didn't take off his coat.
“Laura, we need to talk.”
Everyone knows those words.
Nothing good has ever followed them.
He sat across from me.
“I’m leaving.”
I stared at him.
“For where?”
He closed his eyes.
And that was when I knew.
Not where.
Whom.
“Rebecca?”
Silence.
“How long?”
“It's complicated.”
“How long?”
“Laura—”
“How long?”
“About a year.”
I remember looking toward the hallway.
There were two pairs of tiny sneakers by the door.
Blue.
Red.
Noah and Nathan had insisted on different colors because they were tired of adults confusing them.
“A year.”
Michael nodded.
Something inside me became very still.
“What about the boys?”
“I’ll always be their father.”
That sentence would age badly.
Within three weeks, he had moved into Rebecca’s apartment.
