15May2025
Tonight James told me hes fallen in love again. Not with mehe wont try to hide that. I made a cup of tea, because when the world starts to leak, the instinct is to seal it with boiling water. He was leaning against the kitchen doorway, looking as if he had just returned from a jog rather than from a decision that could overturn our whole life. He spoke calmly, the way one talks about a sudden change of plans for the weekend.
Ive fallen in love. I cant lie to you. I cant stop it. Every word fitted like a lockandkey, no adjectives, no frills. In that starkness there was something mercilesslike the sterile white of a hospital ward.
Fifteen years ago he first drove me to this address. Well have a kitchen with a long table here, he laughed, tapping his fingers on the bare wall. The kitchen exists. The table does too.
But over the years that room has turned into a negotiation hub: who picks up the children from preschool, who takes the dentist appointment, who orders the bag of wood pellets, when the grandparents are due. Those pactlike conversations are as sticky as honeysweet on the surface, but they bind your hands. Perhaps it is from that very stickiness that his current composure grew. Ive fallen in love. It sounded more like Ive done something alive.
Dont tell Santa you want a love delivery, I said, halfsmiling. Im not ordering romance to be delivered to the front door.
I know, he replied. But I dont want to pretend nothings happening. That would be worse.
Worse for whom? For him, who cant bear the weight of a secret, or for me, who is forced to carry his integrity? I set a mug in front of him. The steam rose, as if trying to mask our faces.
I asked no details. I didnt want a catalogue of betrayaldates, locations, surprises. Infidelity hurts without a calendar. I asked only one question:
What are you planning to do?
I dont know, he said, sitting down. I know I dont want to hurt you, but I also dont want to live someone elses script. Ive been thinking about a break. About giving us some space.
Time. That word, when spoken by a grown man, can sound like a cradle for responsibility. I took a sip of tea; it tasted of metal.
For a moment I heard all our oneday promises echo in my head: one day well drive an RV along the coast, one day Ill learn to make PadThai, one day well refurbish the balcony. One day always meant after everything urgent. Yet today urgent crossed the threshold and sat at the kitchen table.
I wont compete with you, I whispered. I wont set up a casting call for a better love.
I dont want competition, he answered quickly. I want truth.
Truth carries consequences, I reminded him. It isnt a pretty word. Truth is boxes, addresses, bank numbers, conversations with the kids. Truth is a choice that isnt maybe later.
He nodded, and for the first time his gaze dropped. I saw his hands arrange themselves on the table as if measuring tendons. Id never really noticed his hands before; now they seemed the same that once assembled our dining table, the same that now might be building a different future elsewhere.
I moved closer, feeling the need to set the ground rules before emotions knocked the chairs out from under us.
Stay in the guest room tonight, I said. Tomorrow morning you can take a few things. Not because Im throwing you out, but because this house isnt a waiting room for indecision.
Alright, he said. Im sorry.
Apologies are yours. For me theyre facts, I cut in. The children will hear the story from both of us, together. No complicated matters narrative. Theyll understand as much as they can, but we wont rehearse a its all fine play.
Silence settled. The clock ticked louder than usual. Lemon cleaner scented the kitchen. I realized that for years wed built this home with sounds: laughter, chatter, the radio, even that damned ticking. And now a single announcement turned it into a quiet gym after class.
I rose, opened the window. A chill brushed my skin like tiny needles. He stepped forward, a breath away, then halted. A good sign. Perhaps for the first time in ages he grasped that falling in love doesnt hand him a licence to trespass on anothers territory.
Later, after a careful dinner with the childrenwords chosen sparingly, the daughter pressed her lips together, the son asked if this was foreverJames packed a bag. He did it without drama, his steps hushed. He left his jacket on the coat rackthe one that always swallows receipts. I thought that jacket holds more of our life than his current words.
Where are you going? I asked.
To a mates flat. I have a key, he said. I dont want to leave a mess for you.
A mess is already here, I replied, without spite. Just invisible.
He smiled sadly. Im not sure Im doing the right thing telling you this.
It was wrong to stay silent, I answered. Its wrong to hurt. But the worst is to hurt and ask no one to shout. So I wont shout. Ill tidy up.
When he slipped into the other room, I grabbed my notebook and the house keysnot to redraw my life on a spreadsheet, but to write down three lines I can carry: I will not compete. I will not pretend. I will not be his coatrack for doubts. I closed the notebook. That was enough.
The night felt sharp as broken glass. I turned restlessly, thinking of every woman who received integrity as a receiptless gift, of those who stayed for the kids, of those who left for themselves. At dawn I rose with a light motion, as if my body wanted to outrun my thoughts.
I made coffee and sat by the window. James emerged from the guest room in his running shirt, bag in hand, not looking at me for a verdict. And that was alright.
Anything else I should take? he asked.
Yes, I said after a pause. Take your well see. Leave me the quiet. Ill make peace with it.
He nodded, kissed the empty space where my cheek had been, and closed the door softly. I heard his footsteps down the stairsone, two, three six flights. When the house finally fell silent, the quiet felt startlingly clear.
I opened the fridge, fetched milk, started the dishwasher. Everyday chores can be braver than grand gestures. I sent a work message: Taking a day off. I called my friend Sarah: I need a walk. I set my grandmothers heirloom ring on a saucer, not in defiance but in care for myself.
That evening his text pinged: Im safe. Im thinking of us. I dont want this to be the end. After a long pause I replied: I wont be halfalive for anyone. If you want her, go. If you want me, come backwithout parallel plans. Not today, and not with love in quotation marks.
He said nothing more. And that was fine. Sometimes the absence of an answer is the first honest word.
Can we ever meet again at the same table, on opposite sides? I dont know. I know I wont stand in the doorway turning into a question mark. Tomorrow Ill change the bedding, shift the mugs, haul the boxes down to the cellarnot as a ritual of decay, but as preparation for what comes next: either me, whole on my own, or us, whole together.
If he ever asks whether I regret making him leave that day, Ill say I dont regret opening the window. Even if a draft sneaks in for a while longer. Only in fresh air can you test whether what remains still has breath.
Sometimes, late at night when the flat falls asleep faster than I do, a quiet thought bubbles up that I cant quite hush: perhaps I should have held him a little longer just a moment more.
