He stared at me.
“I never thought we’d be sitting here discussing something like this.”
“Neither did I.”
He reached across the table, but I moved my hand away.
“Debra, please. I still love you.”
I looked at his hand resting on the wood.
Those hands had held our newborn children. They had carried groceries, repaired broken chairs, and rested on my shoulder during long nights when one of us was sick.
I remembered the first time he had taken my hand.
We had been walking home after dinner, and he had reached for me without saying a word.
I had been so happy that I couldn’t stop smiling.
Now, looking at him, I felt grief for the life I had believed we were living.
“Love is not just something you say when you’re afraid of losing what you have,” I told him.
His eyes filled.
“I know.”
“I don’t think you do.”
