I stared at him.
“Your friend from work is moving into our house?”
“For six months.”
“And I’m hearing about this now?”
He finally lifted his eyes.
“Claire, please don’t start.”
That was my husband’s favorite sentence whenever he wanted to do something outrageous and expected me to make it easier for him.
Please don’t start.
Please don’t make this difficult.
Please be reasonable.
For seven years, I had mistaken his confidence for strength and his selfishness for ambition. I had defended him when my friends questioned his behavior. I had made excuses for his late nights, his mysterious business trips, and the increasingly expensive gifts he claimed were rewards from clients.
And now, apparently, I was expected to prepare a bedroom for the woman whose name appeared on his phone long after midnight.
The woman who had once touched his arm at a company dinner and smiled at me as though we shared a private joke.
