Then I washed my face, ate a piece of toast, and told myself that perhaps the pregnancy was making Ryan anxious.
Perhaps he was afraid of becoming a father.
Perhaps work was overwhelming him.
Perhaps there was an explanation that would allow me to keep loving him without admitting what he was becoming.
I had spent most of our marriage making excuses for him.
I didn’t know it yet, but I was about to run out of excuses.
***
Ryan and I had been married for four years.
We met at a charity auction organized by the architecture firm where he worked as a project manager.
I was twenty-eight, working in accounting for a small medical supply company, and had volunteered to help a friend manage the event’s finances.
Ryan was charming in a quiet, confident way.
He remembered people’s names, opened doors without making a show of it, and listened when I spoke.
