“I am not going back as your wife,” she said. “I am going back to collect my things.”
“I understand.”
“You will sleep somewhere else.”
“I understand.”
“You will not tell the staff where I go.”
“I understand.”
She turned toward the window. “Stop saying that if you don’t.”
His grip tightened on the wheel. “I am trying not to argue with you.”
“I don’t need you to avoid arguing. I need you to hear me.”
“I hear you.”
“Then answer me honestly. Did you ever love me, or did you love the version of me my mother allowed you to have?”
The car moved beneath an overpass. Darkness passed over them, then returned to the washed-out glow of the streetlights.
Daniel took a long breath.
“I loved you,” he said. “But I loved you selfishly. I loved the way you made our house feel warm. I loved that you forgave me before I earned it. I loved that you believed I could be better, and I used that belief as a place to hide.”
Amy closed her eyes.
“I am sorry that I made my love another burden for you to carry.”
She looked at him then.
His eyes remained on the road, but his voice had begun to fail.
“I did not know how much of my life belonged to my mother because I thought obedience was the same as gratitude. Every time she made you smaller, I told myself she was afraid of losing me. Every time I failed to defend you, I called it peace. I made you live inside my cowardice.”
Amy looked down at her hands.
The car stopped outside the house.
The porch light was on. Margaret had always insisted that it remain lit, saying darkness made the property look abandoned. Tonight it illuminated the empty driveway and the rain-dark steps.
Amy opened the door.
Daniel said, “I will wait here.”
She looked back at him. “No. Come inside. I want you to hear me say what happens next.”
They entered through the side door.
The house smelled of polished wood and flowers. Everything was exactly where it had been that morning: the silver bowl on the entry table, Margaret’s portrait above the staircase, Daniel’s shoes aligned beneath the bench.
Amy walked upstairs.
Daniel followed several paces behind.
In the bedroom, she opened the closet and began taking clothes from the shelves. She packed slowly. A blue sweater. Two dresses. The robe she wore when she was sick. A pair of soft shoes her sister had given her.
Daniel stood near the door.
“I will have someone move the furniture tomorrow.”
“I am taking the crib.”
He looked at her. “The crib?”
“The one I bought with my own money.”
“Yes.”
She placed a folded blanket in a suitcase.
“Your mother told me the nursery was too expensive,” Amy said. “She said the child would not need a room until it was old enough to remember it.”
Daniel lowered his head.
“She had already chosen wallpaper,” Amy continued. “Cream and gold. She said it would look better in photographs.”
