A box of condoms. That was all.
It's not like I actually did anything.
I stared at his face and felt, suddenly, like I was looking at a stranger.
Seven years ago, on our wedding night, he'd had too much to drink. He held me in his arms in the bridal suite and called out "Yolanda."
That wasn't my name.
I froze. He froze too. For one split second, his eyes went sharp and sober. Then he pulled me closer. "Just drunk talk," he murmured. "Don't take it seriously."
I took it seriously.
But I didn't ask.
Yolanda. I looked her up later. His college girlfriend. They'd dated three or four years before breaking up after graduation. I'd seen a photo once. Round face, single-lidded eyes, the kind of smile that made her eyes curve into two little crescent moons.
Nothing like me.
I told myself it would get better after the wedding. Hearts were made of flesh, not stone. Given enough time, even the coldest one could be warmed.
I cooked his meals. I did his laundry. I gave him a son. I waited on his mother hand and foot.
The month his mother was in the hospital, I went straight there after work every single day. The family in the next bed over kept telling her what a devoted daughter-in-law she had.
He held my hand once, during that time. "Thank you," he said. "For everything."
I thought he meant it.
Looking back, maybe it was just politeness.
I wrote the divorce papers myself. Found a template online, changed a few things, printed two copies.
He came home early that day. Saw the documents on the coffee table. Picked them up and flipped through.
"You're serious?"
"Yes."
He set the papers down and sat across from me. Lit a cigarette.
In seven years of marriage, he had never once smoked inside the house.
"Fine." He exhaled a plume of smoke. "What do you want? Name it."
I looked at him, and my eyes burned.
Not from sadness. From realizing how stupid I'd been.
He wasn't even going to try to make me stay.
"I don't want anything," I said. "I get our son. You keep the rest."
He blinked.
"You don't want anything?"
"No."
He took another drag. Said nothing.
A long time passed. Then he stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray, stood up, and walked toward the spare bedroom.
At the doorway, he stopped.
"That box of condoms." His back was to me. His voice was low. "It was hers."
My fingers curled into fists.
"Her name's Yolanda."
I know.
"We've been together six months. I wasn't trying to hide it from you. I just didn't know how to bring it up."
I closed my eyes.
"Is there anything else you want to ask?"
I shook my head.
He couldn't see me. But somehow he seemed to sense it. He pushed the door open and went into the spare room.
The door closed softly behind him.
I sat in the living room for a long time. The TV was on but muted. Eventually I got up and stood outside the spare bedroom door for a while.
No sound from inside.
I went back to the master bedroom and locked the door.
The next morning, he left for work early.
I heard the front door open, then quiet footsteps that stopped outside the master bedroom.
A few seconds of silence.
Then he walked away.
I didn't get up until noon. Went to check the spare room.
The bed was made with military precision. On the nightstand sat the divorce papers, signed.
Next to them, a pack of cigarettes weighed down the corner.
I picked it up. Empty.
The ashtray was full of butts.
I was loading my suitcase into the trunk the day I moved out when my phone buzzed in my purse. I pulled it out and saw her name.
Laura.
I answered. Before I could get a word out, she was already going.
"So you think you're too good for us now, is that it? You want a divorce, just like that, and you didn't think to ask the Fox family first?"
I leaned against the car door and looked up at the window of the apartment we'd shared for seven years. The curtains were drawn.
"Where has Cole ever let you down? He handed over his whole paycheck to you. Never went out running around. Came home and lay on the couch every night because he was exhausted. And what do you do? You find one little thing and throw a fit. Throw a fit until you blow up the whole marriage. How do you think this makes us look to our friends and family?"
