Chapter 9 - The Question She Wouldn't Answer
The walks continued through October, usually once a week, sometimes twice when Meline suggested it. We talked about ordinary things as often as difficult ones. She told me about a book Rebecca had recommended and complained about the construction outside her apartment. I told her about a new project at work and the embarrassment of discovering how many meetings I had once attended simply because I wanted to be seen attending them.
There were still days when she canceled at the last minute. I never asked her to explain. Sometimes she said she was tired; other times she sent only a short message saying she needed the day to herself. I replied that I understood, then made other plans instead of spending the afternoon waiting for her to change her mind.
The arrangement was imperfect, but it belonged to both of us. For the first time in years, Meline could choose when she wanted to see me without worrying that refusing would lead to a punishment, an argument, or a performance of wounded pride.
One Thursday, she asked whether I would meet her at Rebecca's house. She wanted to review the remaining separation documents before her attorney finalized them. The request sounded practical, but I knew it mattered that she was willing to discuss the future in person.
Rebecca served us tea and then went upstairs, leaving us alone at the dining table. Meline had arranged the papers in neat piles, with notes beside the sections she wanted clarified. She had always been organized, but this was different. She was no longer asking me to explain our finances as though they were a shared mystery. She had obtained independent advice and was deciding what she needed.
"I want to keep the apartment I've rented," she said. "It's close to Rebecca, and I can manage it without having to come back to the house."
"That makes sense."
"I also want the nursery left as it is until I'm ready to decide what to do with the things there."
"Of course."
She glanced at me. "You don't have to agree with everything just because you feel guilty."
"I'm not agreeing because I'm guilty. I'm agreeing because these are reasonable decisions, and the nursery isn't something I should decide for you."
She looked back at the papers. "That's different from how we used to talk."
"I know."
We reviewed the arrangements for expenses and the division of personal property. There were no dramatic revelations. The process was ordinary, which somehow made it more difficult. I had spent years imagining that the end of a marriage would arrive with a single devastating confrontation. Instead, ours was unfolding through reasonable requests, careful signatures, and the gradual recognition that love had not protected us from becoming strangers.
When we finished, Meline stacked the papers and set them aside. She looked tired, and I asked whether she wanted a break.
"No. I want to ask you something, and I need you to answer honestly."
I waited.
"If I hadn't lost Samuel, would you have left Elena?"
The question was so direct that I could not hide behind a thoughtful pause. I thought about the months of lies, the evenings I had chosen Elena's company, and the way I had dismissed Meline's concerns. I had ended the affair after the hospital, but the fact that I had done so only after the worst possible consequence was not a point in my favor.
"I don't know," I said. "I want to tell you that I would have come to my senses. But I kept choosing the affair while you were asking me to stop. I can't honestly promise that I would have ended it on my own."
Meline's eyes filled, though she did not cry. "That's what I've been afraid of. That you regret losing the life we had, but you might not have changed if you could still have both."
"I think that's a fair fear."
She looked toward the window. For a long time, neither of us spoke. I could feel the urge to add something, to tell her how much I had changed, how empty the house was, how often I thought of Samuel. I understood that none of those facts answered the question.
Finally, she said, "I don't know whether I can live with that."
"I understand."
"Do you? Because I spent a long time believing that if I loved you well enough, you'd eventually want to come home. I don't want to spend the rest of my life trying to earn something that should have been given freely."
The words landed heavily, but I knew she was not trying to punish me. She was explaining the condition under which she could no longer live.
"You shouldn't have to earn my attention," I said. "And you shouldn't have to stay married to me to prove that you loved me."
She looked back at me. "Then why do you keep hoping I'll come back?"
I considered the question. "Because I love you, and because I wish I had treated that love as a responsibility instead of something I could take for granted. But I know wanting you back doesn't give me a right to ask you to return."
She wiped her eyes with a tissue and nodded slowly. We did not solve anything that afternoon. Before I left, she told me she would take the documents to her attorney and decide whether to proceed with the separation as drafted.
The following week, I received the finalized papers. Meline had decided to continue the separation and establish a longer-term financial arrangement. It did not yet dissolve our marriage, but it made clear that she wanted the freedom to live independently while she considered what came next.
I signed them.
My attorney asked whether I wanted to include a provision requiring mediation before either of us could file for divorce. I considered it, then declined. If Meline chose to end the marriage, I would not use procedure to make that decision harder. We could agree to speak if both of us wanted to, but I would not turn a legal safeguard into a means of keeping her close.
After the papers were returned, I sent Meline a brief message confirming that everything had been signed. She replied that she had received them and thanked me for not delaying the process.
That evening, I went to the house and packed a small suitcase. I had been staying there alone, but the rooms had become a place where I replayed our marriage as though I could discover the exact moment I had ruined it. I decided to rent a smaller apartment closer to the office and leave the house available for whatever Meline wanted to do with it.
I did not sell the house or move the nursery. I arranged for the utilities to remain active and asked the housekeeper to continue maintaining it. If Meline wanted to return for her belongings, the rooms would be ready. If she never returned, that would be her choice too.
When I told her about the apartment, she asked whether I was moving because I wanted to make a point.
"No," I said. "I need to stop treating the house as a place where I wait for you to change your mind. It's our home, but you need room to decide what it means to you."
She was quiet for a moment. "Thank you for telling me before you did it."
I realized that, for years, I had made decisions and informed her afterward, assuming that providing the explanation was the same as seeking her agreement. This time, I had not asked permission to move, but I had respected her right to know how the decision might affect her.
A few days later, Meline invited me to dinner at a small restaurant near her apartment. She made the reservation herself and told me she wanted to talk about something that wasn't in the separation papers. I arrived on time, nervous in a way I hadn't been before investor meetings or board presentations.
Over dinner, she told me she had been thinking about the difference between forgiveness and reconciliation. She believed she might eventually forgive me for the affair and the missed calls, but she did not know whether forgiveness would make her want to be married to me again.
"I don't want you to feel obligated to give me another chance," I said.
"I'm not trying to protect you from disappointment, Damen. I'm trying to protect myself from making a decision because I miss you."
I understood. She had spent years accommodating my needs, and even now she was working to separate her own desires from the fear of hurting me.
At the end of the meal, she asked whether I would be willing to attend a few sessions with her counselor—not to begin marriage therapy, but to talk through what had happened with someone who could help us avoid falling into the same patterns.
"Yes," I said. "If you want me there, I'll come."
She nodded. "I do. But I need you to understand that the sessions aren't a promise."
"I understand."
As we stood outside the restaurant, she reached for my hand. The gesture was brief and tentative, and I felt the familiar rush of hope. I did not tighten my grip or ask her what it meant. I let her hold my hand for the few seconds she wanted to, then allowed her to step away.
She looked at me before leaving. "I haven't decided whether I can love you the way I used to."
"I know."
"And I don't want to pretend I have."
"I don't want you to."
She left in a cab, and I walked back to my apartment alone. For the first time, I could see a future in which Meline might forgive me without returning to our marriage. The possibility hurt, but it no longer felt like something I had to prevent at any cost.
The next morning, I confirmed the counseling appointment and blocked the time on my calendar. Whatever answer Meline eventually gave me, I would show up for the conversation she had agreed to have.
May you like
This time, the appointment was not a test of whether she would choose me.
It was a chance to prove I could finally listen.
