“Do you want me to take you home?”
“No.”
“Mom’s?”
“No.”
“My place?”
“I knew you were acting weird.”
She nodded.
We drove in silence for ten minutes.
Then she said, “You’re going to say you knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That something was wrong.”
“I knew you were acting weird.”
“You hated Eric.”
She wiped her face.
“You hated Eric.”
“I met him twice.”
“You didn’t like him.”
“I didn’t know him.”
“He said you always treated me like a child.”
She looked out the window.
“He said you always treated me like a child.”
I kept my eyes on the road.
“Did he?”
“He said every time I called you, I was asking permission.”
Then she started crying again.
“You usually called to complain.”
A tiny laugh escaped her.
Then she started crying again.
I handed her tissues from the console.
She said, “He thought we talked too much.”
“Okay.”
That explained the missed dinners.
“He said I needed more independence.”
“From me?”
She nodded.
That explained the missed dinners.
The short texts.
“How long have you been planning a wedding?”
The sudden silence.
Not all at once. Just enough that every time she pulled away, there had been a reasonable explanation attached to it.
