Jake nodded.
“You’re right.”
He stood.
“I’m sorry.”
I watched him walk away, feeling exhausted.
He was eighteen, and I was thirty-five.
I was the adult with the marriage, the experience, and the responsibility to protect the boundaries of our household.
Whatever his feelings were, I couldn’t keep allowing them to become the center of our lives.
That night, I made a decision.
When Tom returned, I would tell him that our marriage needed attention. I would stop pretending that everything was fine.
I didn’t yet know whether I would tell him about Jake.
I only knew that I couldn’t continue living as though the past few days had been nothing.
The next morning, I found Jake sitting at the kitchen table with an envelope in front of him.
He looked as though he hadn’t slept.
“What’s that?” I asked.
He slid the envelope toward me.
“Something my mother sent me.”
