He began crying harder.
I felt the old urge to comfort him, but I didn’t move.
“Sarah, please. We can fix this.”
“Can we?”
“Yes. I’ll go to the doctor. I’ll do the tests. I’ll do anything.”
I looked at the report.
“Why now?”
He had no answer.
I collected my handbag and turned toward the door.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“To Rebecca’s.”
“You’re leaving me?”
“I’m leaving because I need somewhere I can think without being frightened.”
He stood.
“Please don’t do this.”
I stopped at the doorway.
“Michael, for eighteen years, you asked me to reassure you that tomorrow would be better. Tonight, I’m choosing to make tomorrow better for myself.”
Then I left.
For the first time in our marriage, I did not look back to see whether he was crying.
The following weeks were difficult.
Michael called constantly. Some messages were apologies. Others were accusations that Rebecca had turned me against him. Sometimes he promised to change; other times he said I was destroying our marriage by refusing to return home.
