He never turned around.
I stayed at the table with Mark.
The roast was getting cold. The green beans had gone limp. The candles I had lit earlier were burning low.
After several minutes, Mark looked at me.
“You’re enjoying this.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“No.”
“You’ve been waiting to do this to me.”
I stared at him.
“This is the worst week of my life.”
“Then why are you so calm?”
I took a breath.
“Because if I start screaming, you’ll have something to focus on besides what you did.”
He looked away.
That was the last Sunday dinner we ever had as a family.
The weeks that followed were not dramatic in the way people imagine divorce to be.
There were no public scenes or triumphant speeches.
There were lawyers, documents, difficult conversations, and long evenings when I sat alone in the house trying to understand how my life had changed so completely.
