Sasha said Callan had promised to leave me.
They blamed each other.
Every time I asked who had started it, I got a different answer.
Eventually I stopped asking.
Because it didn’t matter.
The first kiss didn’t matter.
The first message didn’t matter.
Who suggested the hotel didn’t matter.
Nine years of choices had brought us to the same place.
The marriage was over.
One night, Callan sat across from me at the kitchen table.
“Is there anything I can do?”
I looked at him.
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Be a good father.”
His eyes filled.
“I will.”
“Don’t make the children carry what we did.”
“I won’t.”
“Don’t tell them their mother broke up the family.”
“I won’t.”
“Don’t tell them your aunt—”
I stopped.
He understood.
“I won’t.”
I nodded.
“That is the one thing you can still get right.”
In November, we separated.
Not dramatically.
There was no screaming.
