“Claire always warmed the plates first.”
If I bought something new for the kitchen, he might comment,
“Claire never used that brand.”
If I rearranged the living room, he would say,
“Claire liked the couch over there.”
At first, I laughed.
Then I ignored it.
Then I started wondering why he remembered so many little things about a woman he claimed he had been completely finished with for years.
One evening, I finally asked him.
“Mark, do you still have feelings for Claire?”
He looked genuinely surprised.
“What? No.”
“Then why do you compare everything I do to her?”
He sighed.
“You’re reading too much into it.”
“I don’t think I am.”
“She was my wife for twelve years. Of course I’m going to remember things about her.”
I swallowed.
“I understand remembering her. I don’t understand constantly comparing me to her.”
Mark came closer and kissed my forehead.
“Claire is part of my past. You’re my future.”
Those words calmed me.
At least for a while.
I wanted to believe him.
I needed to believe him.
Because I was carrying his child, and I didn’t want to enter motherhood already questioning my marriage.
But then his birthday approached.
One evening, we were sitting at the kitchen table discussing the guest list.
