He stopped.
I stared.
“Say it.”
“Seven years ago.”
“Exactly seven?”
“Almost.”
“Kiara was two.”
“Yes.”
“We had been married three years.”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
Brian rubbed his forehead.
“A few months.”
I laughed again.
“A few months.”
“It wasn’t—”
“Be very careful with your next sentence.”
He stopped.
Good instinct.
I asked:
“Did I know her?”
“No.”
“Work?”
“Yes.”
“You told me she was some church mom.”
“I never said that.”
“You let me believe it.”
“Yes.”
“Did you love her?”
“No.”
“Did she love you?”
“I don’t know.”
“You had an affair for months and don’t know?”
“It wasn’t that kind of relationship.”
I stared at him.
“That is such a disgusting sentence.”
“I know how it sounds.”
“No. You know how you want it to sound. Like it was somehow smaller because you didn’t love her.”
He looked down.
The affair had started during a difficult year in our marriage.
Brian told me that later, and I am careful about how I repeat it because context is not an excuse.
Kiara had been two.
She had recurring ear infections and barely slept for several months.
I was working more hours then.
Brian had been traveling.
We were exhausted.
We fought.
We stopped paying attention to each other.
All true.
And while that was happening, Brian started sleeping with Maren, a woman on his sales team.
That was also true.
One did not cause the other.
Brian made that choice.
For nearly four months.
Then Maren ended it.
Two months later, she learned she was pregnant.
“She told you?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“About six weeks after.”
“What did you do?”
“I panicked.”
“What does that mean?”
“I asked what she wanted.”
“And?”
“She wanted to keep the baby.”
I felt something cold move through me.
“Did you ask her to end the pregnancy?”
Brian looked away.
“Once.”
That hurt in a way I could not immediately explain.
Not because Maren had continued her pregnancy.
