Her divorce had been difficult, she’d explained. Her former husband had left her after twelve years of marriage, and she was trying to start over.
I felt sorry for her.
That afternoon, I realized she had mistaken my kindness for weakness.
“You know,” Vanessa continued, picking up her fork again, “men like Irvin eventually want something different. Seventeen years is a long time to eat the same dinner.”
I smiled without meaning it.
“Fortunately, my husband has never complained about my cooking.”
“Cooking isn’t what I’m talking about.”
“I know exactly what you’re talking about.”
She leaned back in her chair.
“Then you should be worried.”
I stood up, collected our plates, and walked toward the sink.
“Vanessa, I’m going to give you some advice. You’re welcome to be my neighbor. You’re welcome to become my friend. But if you ever speak about my husband like he’s a man you’ve already purchased, you won’t be welcome in my home again.”
