“Oh, Mike.”
I could hear genuine distress in her voice.
For a second, I felt bad for telling her.
Then I reminded myself that I hadn't created the situation.
“I don't want you caught in the middle,” I said. “I love your family, and I appreciate how you've treated me. But I won't spend the next month defending myself for refusing to wait.”
Patricia sounded tired.
“She's always been impulsive when she's unhappy.”
I looked out the window.
“An impulsive decision is buying an expensive handbag because you had a bad day. This took months.”
She didn't argue.
Before hanging up, she said, “I hope you two can find some way through this.”
“So do I,” I answered.
And I meant it.
I simply no longer believed that finding a way through it necessarily meant staying married.
That evening, I visited my father.
Ben Harper lived in a small single-story house in Delaware, north of Columbus. He had spent thirty-seven years building cabinets and custom furniture before retiring.
He was sixty-four, with gray hair, thick hands, and a permanent collection of tiny scars from a lifetime of woodworking.
My mother used to say that my father communicated love through things he repaired.
He rarely gave speeches.
He fixed broken porch steps.
He sharpened kitchen knives.
He changed oil.
He built bookshelves for people who couldn't afford to buy them.
After my mother's death, he had become quieter.
But he never stopped showing up for Leah and me.
When I arrived, he was in his garage sanding the top of an old oak dining table.
He wore safety glasses and a faded Ohio State sweatshirt.
He turned off the sander when he saw me.
“Hey, kid.”
“Hey, Dad.”
“You eat?”
“Yeah.”
He looked at me.
“You look like you haven't.”
I managed a weak smile.
“Leah told you?”
He nodded.
“She gave me the general picture.”
I leaned against the workbench.
“I'm sorry.”
“For what?”
“Dragging everybody into this.”
Dad removed his safety glasses.
“Your marriage matters to us because you matter to us. That's not dragging anybody anywhere.”
I looked down at the sawdust on the floor.
“She left.”
“I heard.”
“For another guy.”
“I heard that, too.”
“She wants to come back after thirty days and tell me whether she still wants me.”
Dad was quiet for a moment.
Then he asked, “What do you want?”
I thought about the question.
“I wanted my wife.”
He nodded.
“That's not quite what I asked.”
I swallowed.
“I want the person I married. I don't know who this is.”
He set his glasses on the workbench.
My father had never been the kind of man who offered easy advice about relationships.
He and my mother had been married for thirty-five years when she died.
Their marriage wasn't perfect.
I remembered arguments about money, family responsibilities, and my father's habit of taking extra jobs when he should have been resting.
But I also remembered the way he brought my mother coffee every morning.
Even when they were upset with each other.
Even when he knew she wouldn't want to talk.
He would set the cup on the counter and leave it there.
“Your mother and I had some ugly years,” he said.
I looked up.
I wasn't expecting that.
“You did?”
“Of course we did. You were a kid. You didn't see everything.”
He picked up a rag and wiped his hands.
“There was a time when I was working too much and she felt like she was raising you and Leah alone. She was angry, and she had a right to be. We had some hard conversations.”
“What happened?”
“I listened. Eventually.”
He gave a small, humorless smile.
“And I stopped pretending that paying bills was the same as being present.”
I looked away.
“Maybe that's what I did wrong.”
“Maybe you made mistakes. Everybody does.”
“Rachel said our life became boring.”
Dad shrugged.
“Most of life is ordinary, Mike. People don't stay happy for forty years because every Tuesday is exciting.”
I watched him fold the rag.
“Then how do they do it?”
“They keep choosing the same person when it's inconvenient. They tell the truth. They try again when they mess up.”
He looked directly at me.
“Your mother never asked me to stand outside our marriage while she decided whether somebody else was a better deal.”
The words landed hard.
Dad didn't continue.
He didn't need to.
We spent the next hour working on the table.
I held a flashlight while he inspected a damaged joint.
He showed me how to apply wood glue without using too much.
For a while, we talked about furniture instead of divorce.
Before I left, he placed a hand on my shoulder.
“You can love somebody and still decide you won't let them hurt you again.”
I nodded.
He squeezed my shoulder once.
“Call me if the house gets too quiet.”
I promised I would.
Driving home, I felt a little less alone.
But when I pulled into our driveway and saw the dark windows, the loneliness returned.
There are things other people can help you carry.