My own career had only just started to take off. If I divorced him, raising a child alone, the financial strain would be brutal.
But more than that, I couldn't stand it.
I couldn't stand handing over five years of marriage to a woman Brad described as lively, sunny, and free of pretense.
I'd met Agatha Pruitt a few times.
Every time, she was dressed to the last detail, her makeup flawless, her voice pitched just so, every word like it had been rehearsed.
In front of Brad, she always wore the same look: I don't understand any of this, so come teach me.
"Brad, can you take a look at this proposal for me, pretty please?"
"Brad, that theory you mentioned last time was so deep. Explain it to me again?"
"Brad, you're too good to me. I don't even know how to repay you."
Soft, coaxing, every sentence trailing up at the end, every word with a hook in it.
I used to think that was just her personality. Now I understood it wasn't personality at all. It was a tactic.
And Brad ate it up.
To him, that was lively and sunny and unpretentious.
That was being genuine.
That was holding nothing back.
And me?
I was the one who was too serious, too earnest, who didn't know how to put a man at ease.
I handled everything that actually mattered, and he found me dull.
She didn't have to do a thing. She just had to play cute, and he thought she was wonderful.
I don't know if that counts as irony, but I did find it funny.
Funny enough to make me want to cry.
Before I could even decide what to do, the news came that our son's preschool was holding a parent-child sports day over the weekend.
It required both parents to attend.
I also wanted to use it as a chance to thaw things between us a little.
I told Brad. He just frowned and said, "I've got something that day."
"What something?"
"I leave for a business trip Friday night."
"The sports day is Saturday morning. Can't you leave Saturday morning instead?"
He shot me a look. I knew that look. It was impatience.
"Hope, I told you I have something. It's a preschool sports day. You can go by yourself. There's no need for both of us to be there."
I didn't waste any more words trying to argue with him.
But I quietly checked his schedule.
It took me less than an hour to find out: Friday night, Brad wasn't going on any business trip.
His car was parked in a spot at that complex on the east side of the city.
It stayed there until the early hours of Saturday before it left.
Saturday morning, I took our son to the sports day alone.
Every other kid had both a mom and a dad. Our son stood alone beside me, looking up at me, and said quietly, "Mom, where's Dad?"
"Dad's away on a business trip."
He went quiet for a moment, and when he spoke again there was a sob in his voice.
"Mom, does Dad not like me?"
I crouched down and looked him in the eyes.
"It's not that he doesn't like you. Dad's just very busy."
He was still hiccuping through his tears.
"But Cody's dad is busy too, and he came today."
I didn't know what to say. All I could do was scoop him up.
"Mommy likes you. Mommy will always like you."
When the sports day ended, there was an activity called "A Gift for Mom and Dad."
Aaron made a card. On it he'd drawn three people: Dad, Mom, and him.
Beside Dad's head, he'd drawn a big question mark.
The teacher said, "Aaron, why did you draw a question mark?"
He tilted his head up. "Because Dad's always so busy. I can't remember what Dad looks like."
I held that card, my hands trembling.
That night, Brad came home a little after nine.
