news. It means I have at least a couple of hours alone with him. I make us both tea and he joins me at the table. I move my course books and the laptop out of the way of our mugs and smile at my husband, hoping he will reciprocate. But his forehead creases and he stares at his hands. I have never realised how nice his hands are. Large and gentle. Comforting.
“We should talk,” he says. He still doesn’t look at me so I know whatever he is about to say will not be easy for him. But I watch him now, clearly uncomfortable, searching for the right words. This must be bad.
As I wait for him to speak, I study his face. There is something different about him. He hasn’t shaved for a couple of days, but it’s not that. I am used to seeing him unshaven. On some men stubble suggests laziness, but on James it’s attractive. I’ve known him for nearly three years, yet today he feels like a stranger.
Paranoia, that’s what it is. Fear that his feelings for you are reflected in his face.
Watching him now, I can hear the words he is about to speak. It’s not working. I’ve caused too much trouble. The boys will never be able to accept me and he has to put them first. Then, because he has started he will add all the things he’s wanted to say for too long. I shoudn’t have married you. You are not Lauren.
“It’s about the boys,” he says, forcing me to focus. I don’t know if I can sit and hear this now but I stifle my urge to run from the room. To leave this house without letting him say the words. But then he surprises me. “It’s my fault. I should have introduced you to them sooner. Given them more time to get used to you.”
It doesn’t sound like he’s about to end our marriage after all, but I’m still unsure. Is he apologising? Blaming himself for the state we’re in? Wait a year , he said, when I first asked if I could meet his sons. It was too early. He wanted to be sure. My pleas for us to be introduced fell on deaf ears.
“And now it’s just a huge…mess.” Finally he looks at me, a signal that it’s my turn to speak, but what am I supposed to say?
“I’m trying, James,” I tell him. He doesn’t look convinced.
Nodding, he stares into his mug. “I know you are. I know. The thing is, I can’t see how to make things better.”
His words hit me and my breath catches in my throat. He is going to end this, he has no choice. He can’t choose me over his sons, so if there is no way to fix things, I am the one who will have to go. “I’ll try harder,” I say. “I promise. We can work this out.”
He reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “Oh, Callie, nobody could try harder than you. This isn’t your fault. I hate seeing you like this. Stressed. Not yourself. I hate seeing us all like this.”
“James, I –”
“I just don’t know what to do. This is awful.”
“I know. But we’ll work it out. We can get through this, James.”
“I love you,” he says, but his eyes are tinged with sadness. He pushes his mug aside and stands up. “I just need to drop something off at the shop. I’ll be back before the boys get home.”
And then he is gone. I clear away our unfinished mugs of tea, numb to what’s just happened. James didn’t say it was over, but why does it feel that way? When the front door closes, the numbness evaporates and I break down for the second time this weekend, hating myself for my weakness. Hating that I don’t know anymore whether I love or hate the boys.
When James gets back, I give him space and stay upstairs, telling him I need to study. Lying on the bed with my textbook, I can hear him rattling around downstairs and wonder what he’s doing. Perhaps he is just distracting himself.
It’s not long before I hear Emma arriving with the boys, and they all bustle in, probably excited to share stories of the weekend with James. I force myself out of the bedroom, with each step feeling as if I am walking the plank.
It falls
“We should talk,” he says. He still doesn’t look at me so I know whatever he is about to say will not be easy for him. But I watch him now, clearly uncomfortable, searching for the right words. This must be bad.
As I wait for him to speak, I study his face. There is something different about him. He hasn’t shaved for a couple of days, but it’s not that. I am used to seeing him unshaven. On some men stubble suggests laziness, but on James it’s attractive. I’ve known him for nearly three years, yet today he feels like a stranger.
Paranoia, that’s what it is. Fear that his feelings for you are reflected in his face.
Watching him now, I can hear the words he is about to speak. It’s not working. I’ve caused too much trouble. The boys will never be able to accept me and he has to put them first. Then, because he has started he will add all the things he’s wanted to say for too long. I shoudn’t have married you. You are not Lauren.
“It’s about the boys,” he says, forcing me to focus. I don’t know if I can sit and hear this now but I stifle my urge to run from the room. To leave this house without letting him say the words. But then he surprises me. “It’s my fault. I should have introduced you to them sooner. Given them more time to get used to you.”
It doesn’t sound like he’s about to end our marriage after all, but I’m still unsure. Is he apologising? Blaming himself for the state we’re in? Wait a year , he said, when I first asked if I could meet his sons. It was too early. He wanted to be sure. My pleas for us to be introduced fell on deaf ears.
“And now it’s just a huge…mess.” Finally he looks at me, a signal that it’s my turn to speak, but what am I supposed to say?
“I’m trying, James,” I tell him. He doesn’t look convinced.
Nodding, he stares into his mug. “I know you are. I know. The thing is, I can’t see how to make things better.”
His words hit me and my breath catches in my throat. He is going to end this, he has no choice. He can’t choose me over his sons, so if there is no way to fix things, I am the one who will have to go. “I’ll try harder,” I say. “I promise. We can work this out.”
He reaches for my hand and squeezes it. “Oh, Callie, nobody could try harder than you. This isn’t your fault. I hate seeing you like this. Stressed. Not yourself. I hate seeing us all like this.”
“James, I –”
“I just don’t know what to do. This is awful.”
“I know. But we’ll work it out. We can get through this, James.”
“I love you,” he says, but his eyes are tinged with sadness. He pushes his mug aside and stands up. “I just need to drop something off at the shop. I’ll be back before the boys get home.”
And then he is gone. I clear away our unfinished mugs of tea, numb to what’s just happened. James didn’t say it was over, but why does it feel that way? When the front door closes, the numbness evaporates and I break down for the second time this weekend, hating myself for my weakness. Hating that I don’t know anymore whether I love or hate the boys.
When James gets back, I give him space and stay upstairs, telling him I need to study. Lying on the bed with my textbook, I can hear him rattling around downstairs and wonder what he’s doing. Perhaps he is just distracting himself.
It’s not long before I hear Emma arriving with the boys, and they all bustle in, probably excited to share stories of the weekend with James. I force myself out of the bedroom, with each step feeling as if I am walking the plank.
It falls
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