I walked to my truck and sat behind the steering wheel without starting it. I wanted someone to tell me the correct answer. Should I stay because she was finally trying? Should I leave because the months of contempt had broken something I couldn't replace? How much of my doubt came from wounded pride, and how much from an honest recognition of what I could no longer live with?
Then I realized that there wasn't an authority anywhere who could make that choice for me. Dr. Lane could help us talk. Alana could explain the legal process.
Ben could offer love without judgment. Natalie could change her behavior and apologize sincerely. None of them could decide whether I wanted to continue being her husband.
When I got home, I asked Natalie to sit with me in the kitchen. She turned off her phone and set it face up on the table, an ordinary gesture that once would have meant a great deal to me. I waited until we were both comfortable, then told her I had made a decision.
"I want us to separate," I said. "Not as a test or a punishment. I think we need to accept that our marriage has changed in a way I can't undo. I don't want to keep you in a waiting room while I search for the feeling I used to have."
Her face went very still. For a second I saw the same fear she'd shown on the night of the nightclub argument. Then she looked down at her hands and asked, "Are you saying divorce?"
"Yes. I think I am."
She cried without trying to bargain at first. Then she asked whether I would reconsider after another month of counseling. I told her that the sessions had helped us understand each other and might help us separate respectfully, but I didn't want to promise another month solely because neither of us wanted to feel the pain of ending things. That would be another way of avoiding an honest decision.
"I love you, Randy," she said.
"I know. And I love you too."
"Then how can we do this?"
It took me a long time to answer. "Because love doesn't always mean the same thing as being able to build a life together. I wish it did."
She covered her eyes. I moved my chair closer, but I didn't ask her to take back her tears or pretend I could make them stop. We sat in silence as the dishwasher finished its cycle. In the other room, Pepper chased a toy across the floor, unaware that the two people she'd lived with all her life had just agreed that their home would change.
The following week Natalie moved into a short-term apartment closer to downtown. We packed her clothes together because neither of us wanted the last memory of our house to be a fight over drawers and hangers. She took the books she'd bought, the photographs she wanted, and the antique lamp Eileen had given us as a wedding gift. I kept the old dining table for the time being because neither of us could imagine moving it without remembering all the meals we'd eaten around it.