Chapter 4 - Packing
When I got home, his duffel bag was still by the door.
"Where did you go?"
"Mom's."
I walked into the bedroom and pulled my suitcase from the closet. He followed. "What are you doing?"
"Packing enough clothes for a few days."
"I thought you wanted me to stay."
I set the suitcase on the bed. "I did. Then I spent an hour asking myself why."
"And?"
"I don't know what I want anymore."
He stepped into the room. "Rosalind, I didn't ask for a divorce because I stopped caring about you."
"No. You asked because you decided you understood my feelings better than I did." I folded a sweater and put it inside. "If you want the divorce, I won't stop you."
"You're just walking away?"
"I'm stopping something I've been doing for years."
"What?"
"Trying to make myself useful enough that nobody leaves me."
He sat on the edge of the bed. I kept packing. "You waited until Dr. Osei gave you good news today. You decided that once you were healthy, I could leave without feeling guilty."
He lowered his eyes. "When I was sick, I couldn't ask you."
"Ask me what?"
He looked up. "Whether you still wanted me."
I stopped packing. "You asked me to manage the bills. You asked me to sit through every appointment. You asked me to stay awake when you were scared. Why was that the one question you couldn't ask?"
"Because I needed all those other things. If I asked whether you loved me and you said yes, I'd never know if you meant it, or if you meant 'I can't abandon you while you have cancer.'"
His words hung between us. "So you waited until today."
"Today was the first day you were completely free to choose without cancer making the decision for you."
For the first time, I understood his reasoning. I still hated what he'd done with it.
"If you hadn't gotten sick," he asked quietly, "would we still be married?"
Months earlier I'd have lied to protect him. Now I answered honestly. "I don't know."
He looked away. "But you don't know either. We were falling apart before cancer. Then you got sick and suddenly we needed each other so desperately neither of us had to ask whether we were actually happy."
He looked back. "Do you still love me?"
"Yes." His eyes filled. "But I loved you when I was miserable too. I've learned that loving someone can keep you in a life long after that life has stopped working."
"So what happens now?"
I closed the suitcase. "I'm leaving tonight. Not because I've decided we should divorce, but because for once I need to make a decision without being your nurse, your fixer, or the woman terrified you'll collapse without her."
"And what happens to us?"
I lifted the suitcase. "If there's still an 'us,' Warren, we need to discover it when neither of us is staying because we're afraid to leave."
Epilogue: The Same Restaurant
I stayed with my mother for several weeks, but I didn't use her house as a hiding place. Warren began counseling. So did I. At work, I stopped automatically volunteering for every extra shift. The first time my supervisor asked, "Rosalind, can you cover tonight?" I answered, "I can't." Then I waited for the familiar guilt. It came. I went home anyway.
Months later, Warren sent a message. "Can we have dinner?"
My first instinct was to refuse. I typed a response, stared at it, deleted it. Then I wrote: "Friday. Seven. I'll choose the place."
I chose the same restaurant where he'd left me waiting alone on our anniversary.
When I arrived, he was already at the table. "I thought you'd changed your mind."
"No. I'm six minutes late."
He almost smiled. "That's new."
"A lot is."
For once I didn't ask about medical appointments. He didn't ask how many shifts I was working. Instead he told me about counseling and admitted he'd almost quit twice.
"I kept waiting for you to call and ask me to come home," I admitted.
"I kept reaching for my phone."
"Then why didn't you call?"
"Because I finally realized missing you wasn't the same as being ready for you."
When dessert arrived, he put down his fork. "Do you want to try again?"
I looked at the man I'd loved for eleven years. "Not the way we were."
He nodded slowly. "What does that mean?"
"It means I don't move back because you're lonely. You don't stay married because I carried you through cancer. We continue counseling. We date each other again. We talk before resentment turns into secrets."
"And if it still doesn't work?"
"Then we end it honestly."
His eyes dropped. "You could still decide I'm not enough."
I leaned toward him. "Warren, I nearly divorced you because I stopped feeling seen. Then cancer made you need me so much I confused being necessary with being loved."
"I'm never doing that again."
"Do you still love me?"
"Yes. But love doesn't get to make every decision anymore."
"I do," I said.
He was quiet a moment. Then he nodded. "Okay."
I pulled the dessert toward myself.
For years I'd measured my worth by how much I could carry for everyone around me. That night, nothing needed carrying. Warren wasn't my patient. I wasn't his rescuer. And if we chose each other again, it wouldn't be because cancer, guilt, fear, or eleven years of history had trapped us together.
It would be because I chose him.
May you like
And because, finally, I understood that I was allowed to choose myself too.
— END —
