The truth did not need a single villain to be painful.
A week later, I met Julian at our house.
Patricia had advised me not to make permanent financial or property decisions while emotions were still raw.
So I didn’t.
I went home during daylight.
Julian looked terrible.
Unshaven.
Red-eyed.
For one irrational second, I worried whether he had eaten.
Then I reminded myself that a forty-two-year-old man could feed himself.
We sat at the kitchen table.
The same table where I had filled out insurance forms for fertility treatment.
The same table where we had planned vacations.
The same table where Julian had once proposed refinancing the house.
“I ended things with Sophie,” he said.
I looked at him.
“She already told me.”
His eyes widened.
“You’re still talking to her?”
“Occasionally.”
He looked almost offended.
I nearly laughed.
“She’s carrying your child, Julian.”
“I know.”
“What do you expect?”
“I don’t know.”
That was the first honest sentence he had given me in a long time.
He folded his hands.
“I want to save our marriage.”
I looked around the kitchen.
“Why?”
His expression changed.
“Because I love you.”
“You’ve said that.”
“It’s true.”
“Then explain what happened.”
He talked for almost an hour.
Some of it was probably true.
He reconnected with Sophie at a professional event.
They had coffee.
Then dinner.
He felt wanted at a time when our marriage had become consumed by fertility treatment and disappointment.
He said he felt helpless around my grief.
He said Sophie reminded him of the person he had been before responsibility.
He said he told himself it would end.
Then it didn’t.
None of those things surprised me.
They were human explanations.
That did not make them excuses.
“When did your family find out?” I asked.
“Marta first.”
“When?”
“About six months ago.”
“Your mother?”
“Three months.”
“And your father?”
“About the same.”
“They all knew before I did.”
“Yes.”
“Did any of them tell you to tell me?”
He looked down.
“Marta did.”
I thought about that.
“Your mother?”
“She thought I should wait until I knew what Sophie wanted.”
“Because if Sophie ended the pregnancy, I never needed to know?”
Julian did not answer.
I felt sick.
“And after everyone knew she was keeping the baby?”
“Mom thought we could figure out an arrangement.”
“We.”
“She thought maybe…”
He stopped.
“Say it.”
“Claire.”
“Say it.”
He looked miserable.
“She knew how much we wanted a child.”
I stared at him.
“She thought you might eventually see the baby as…”
“As what?”
“Part of the family.”
I stood.
Julian stood too.
“Claire, that wasn’t my idea.”
“You sat there while she said it.”
“I was overwhelmed.”
“You laughed.”
His face collapsed.
“I know.”
“You laughed.”
“I was nervous.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
“I know.”
I walked into the living room.
Our wedding photograph sat on the bookshelf.
I picked it up.
Not dramatically.
I simply wanted to look.
Julian was thirty-two in the photo.
I was thirty.
We looked exhausted and delighted.
Neither of those people knew what was coming.
“I kept thinking the affair was the whole betrayal,” I said.
Julian stood behind me.
“It isn’t?”
“No.”
I turned.
“The affair is one betrayal. The lying is another. But you let your family make my infertility into a joke and then into a plan.”
He started crying again.
“I’m sorry.”
“I believe you.”
Hope flickered across his face.
I hated what I had to say next.
“That doesn’t mean I can stay.”
We separated.