The Beginning of the End (Of the Beginning)

We were arguing again.

That is what had become of the marriage during the last several years, arguments, distant silences, and keeping up appearances. I knew all about keeping up appearances, I’d learned that as a child. My father always made sure to kiss my mother hello and good-bye, so everyone thought they were so happy. They didn’t witness the arguments.

Arguments like I was repeating with my own husband.

Growing up, I had often wished my parents would just stop the torture of the entire family and call it quits, get a divorce. They never did. Now, in the midst of the current argument I thought of my own children and wondered if they also wished for a stop to the torture.

I know I wished for it.

I knew I couldn’t take it anymore.

"It’s over!" I said. "As soon as I finish school and get a job somewhere, I’ll take the girls and I’ll be gone."

He looked at me, seeming not to comprehend. He didn’t say another word but walked upstairs and went to bed.

It was eight PM.

I was a little in shock. I’d finally said it, finally told him I was leaving him. I’d wanted this off and on for eleven years, more and more the last few. The last straw had come for me almost two months before, but I’d still been afraid. Afraid to leave my home and strike out alone with my children. Afraid of what people would say about this second failed marriage of mine.

Afraid of the unknown.

So I stayed.

I stayed although I became more bitter and angry with the man I’d married every day. The man who didn’t know me, and didn’t seem to want to.

That evening though, I felt relief. Whatever happened now, at least I had done SOMETHING. At least I had taken a first step.

I was not the only one taking steps.

The next morning started in the usual way. Rick and Abigail were getting ready to leave for school; she rode with him every day. Christine wasn’t going to school, because she’d recently broken her leg. It was the end of the year anyway, her last year before starting high school, and her teachers understood how difficult getting around was for her, and assured me it wouldn’t affect her grades. Abigail, a high school sophomore, was having finals that day.

I went downstairs for coffee, and he was in the kitchen. Before I could say anything, he said, "I know about Alexis. I know about your lover."

I was too stunned to speak.

I looked at him with a blank expression, trying to think of something to say.

"I looked at your email," he said, walking past me toward his den. He picked up some papers and continued on to the bottom of the stairway. "Girls, do you want to know about your mother’s lover, the woman in California?" he called loudly.

And then he started up the stairs.