I knelt in front of him, tears streaming down my face.
“I was wrong. I was so wrong.”
“I asked you how long.”
He repeated it without raising his voice.
“Three months.”
I was sobbing now.
“But nothing happened. I swear, we just talked.”
“Enough.”
He stubbed out his cigarette and stood up.
“Susan, I’m giving you two choices. One, we divorce. You walk away with nothing. Two, we stay married. But from this day forward, we are roommates, not husband and wife.”
I stared at him, stunned.
“Jake has his whole life ahead of him. I don’t want this to affect him.”
His tone was cold and detached, as if he were discussing a business deal.
“And a divorce wouldn’t look good for your job either. So I’m giving you this choice. If you don’t agree, we’ll get a divorce.”
“I… I agree.”
I heard myself whisper it, my voice trembling.
Then it was settled. He walked into our bedroom, gathered his pillow and a comforter, and threw them onto the living room sofa.
“From now on, I sleep out here. Your life is your own, but in front of our son and in front of everyone else, you will act like a normal wife.”
That night, I lay alone in our king-size bed, listening to him tossing and turning on the couch. I had expected him to scream, to hit me, to demand answers. But he did none of those things. He simply shut me out of his world. For the first time, I understood that some punishments were far crueler than divorce.
The next day, Michael went to work as if nothing had happened. I called in sick, unable to face Ethan. I sent him a single text.
“I’m sorry. We can’t see each other again.”
He replied with one word.
“Okay.”
And just like that, my affair with Ethan was over. But my marriage to Michael was, too.
In the years that followed, we maintained a strange, cold peace. He would make coffee in the morning but would not speak to me. He would come home from work on time, but disappear into his study until I was asleep, only coming out later to lie down on the couch. When Jake came home for Christmas break, I asked him what he wanted for dinner, trying to sound cheerful.
“Whatever.”
He said it without even looking at me before shutting himself in his room.
That Christmas, the atmosphere was arctic. During dinner, the three of us sat in silence, the only sound coming from the holiday movie playing on TV.
“Jake, have some more turkey.”
I tried to put some on his plate.
He pulled his plate away, head down.
“Dad, how are things at the firm?”
He asked it pointedly, ignoring me.
“Fine.”
Michael answered curtly.
“Good.”
Jake put his fork down.
“I’m full. Going to my room.”
Watching my son walk away, the tears started again.
“Stop crying.”
Michael’s voice was flat.
“Save your energy. We have to go to your mother’s tomorrow.”
I wiped my eyes, a chilling realization dawning on me. This was my life now. Playing happy family for the world. Living as strangers at home.
Time passed, freezing our relationship in place. In 2011, Jake graduated with his master’s degree and took a job in Chicago. The house, now empty of our son, felt even colder. I tried to mend things. I learned to cook Michael’s favorite meals, bought him thoughtful birthday gifts, and waited up for him with a snack when he worked late. But he remained a wall of indifference, my efforts bouncing off him.
“You don’t have to do this.”
He said it coldly one night.
“We’re just acting. You understand that, right?”
“But I want to make it up to you.”
I choked out the words.
“Some things can’t be fixed.”
He cut me off.
“Susan, I gave you a respectable way out. Just live your life and don’t make me regret my decision.”
In that moment, I finally understood. He did not hate me. He had just buried the hate so deep it had turned to ice.
In 2013, Jake married a lovely, kind girl named Sarah. At the wedding, Michael and I stood side by side, smiling and giving toasts.
“Your parents have such a wonderful marriage.”
