He abandoned every one.
“When the washing machine flooded,” he said, “you told me you were sitting on the kitchen floor. I sent you instructions for the shutoff valve.”
Leah looked at him.
“Yes.”
“I thought I was helping.”
“You were helping with the water.”
The distinction was so precise that Thomas felt it physically.
“I didn’t ask how you were.”
“No.”
He nodded.
“I’m sorry.”
Leah’s face did not soften on command. He was grateful for that. If she forgave him too quickly, he knew he would be tempted to believe he had finally found the correct sentence.
“I don’t need you to apologize for being at sea,” she said. “I knew who I married.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because every time I said I was lonely, you answered like I was asking you to quit.”
Thomas looked down.
She was right.
Loneliness had sounded like accusation. Accusation had made him defend the work. Defending the work had required making Leah’s pain seem unreasonable, even when he never used that word.
“I don’t think you were asking me to quit,” he said.
“Not now. What did you think then?”
He forced himself to answer honestly.
“I thought if I admitted how bad it was for you, then I had to choose between you and the Navy.”
Leah’s eyes filled.
“So you chose not to admit it.”
“Yes.”
They sat with that.
Thomas wanted to reach across the table. He did not.
Leah wrapped both hands around her glass. “I packed because I couldn’t come home after work one more night and feel like the house was a storage unit for your return.”
He flinched.
“I kept your side of the closet organized. I renewed the registration. I fixed the sink. I remembered which bills couldn’t be on autopay. I sent you pictures of the dog. I kept your life ready. And when you called, I tried not to waste your limited time complaining.”
