Michael rose from his chair.
“Eat your dinner.”
That Thanksgiving meal ended in silence. Jake’s words planted a seed in my mind. He was right. What were we doing besides torturing each other? But I was too afraid to ask for a divorce. I was terrified of losing what little I had left of my family, of losing Michael, even if all he gave me was coldness.
In 2017, I turned fifty. The school threw a small party for me.
“Susan, how come your husband isn’t here?”
One of the younger teachers asked it innocently.
“He’s stuck at work.”
I lied with a smile, my heart aching.
The truth was, Michael had no idea it was my birthday. He had not acknowledged my birthday in years. When I got home that night, there was a plate on the kitchen table with two pancakes still warm.
“Eat.”
Michael emerged from the kitchen.
“For your birthday.”
I stared at the plate. My favorite. Buttermilk with blueberries. Tears started falling.
“You… you remembered?”
“I just remember the date.”
His voice was flat.
“Don’t read too much into it.”
But I could not help it. This was the first thing he had made for me in a decade.
“Michael.”
I was sobbing now.
“Is there… is there any chance for us?”
He was silent for so long I thought he would not answer.
“Susan, some things are in the past for a reason.”
He turned and walked toward his study.
“They’ll get cold if you wait.”
I sat at the table and ate every last bite of those pancakes. They were salty, and I could not tell if it was from the batter or my tears.
Our thirtieth wedding anniversary was in 2018. Jake insisted on celebrating.
“Thirty years is the pearl anniversary, Mom. It’s a big deal.”
He booked a nice restaurant. At dinner, Sarah held Noah while Jake raised a glass.
“To Mom and Dad. Thank you for everything you’ve done these past thirty years. May you always be this happy together.”
Michael and I clinked glasses and drank.
“Jake, the truth is your mother and I—”
Michael had barely begun when Jake interrupted.
“Dad, I know. But no matter what’s happened between you two, in my heart, you are the most important people in my life.”
Michael did not say another word. He just quietly drank his wine.
That night, back home, we lay in our separate spaces, me in the bedroom, him on the couch, the door between us a physical manifestation of the wall between our worlds.
“Michael.”
I called out into the darkness.
“Yeah.”
His voice came from the living room.
“Thirty years. Have you hated me for thirty years?”
The silence stretched on.
“I don’t hate you,” he finally said. “I’m just tired.”
Tired. The word was more heartbreaking than hate.
“I’m sorry.”
I whispered it into the dark, tears rolling down my temples.
“Don’t say sorry.”
His voice was loud now.
“It’s all in the past.”
But was it really?
The pandemic hit in 2020. Michael and I were both retired, stuck at home together. We saw more of each other in those months than we had in the previous decade. We cooked together, watched the news, followed the case numbers. For a moment, it almost felt like we were a real couple again.
“Wear your mask.”
He would say it before he went to the grocery store.
I would watch him leave from the doorway, that small everyday concern making my heart ache with a fragile hope. Maybe we could start again. I was wrong. One night, I made a special dinner and opened a bottle of wine.
“What’s the occasion?”
Michael asked as he sat down.
“No reason. I just felt like having a nice meal with you.”
I poured him a glass.
“Michael… can we… can we try again? For real this time?”
He put his glass down and looked at me. A bitter smile touched his lips.
“Try again, Susan? Do you think this is a game you can just hit reset on?”
“I know I was wrong.”
