Marcus and I moved around each other with the careful politeness of two people who have said real things and are waiting to see what the real things produce.
He did not bring up Sunday’s conversation.
He did not apologize.
He was not unkind.
Just absent.
In the way of a man who has retreated into his routines as a form of defense.
Doing the dishes.
Watching his shows.
Going to work.
Keeping to the shallow register of daily life where nothing important could be said or decided.
I went to work and saw my patients and came home and made dinner and ate it and cleaned up and thought every evening, sitting at the kitchen table with the amber light coming through the west-facing windows.
How long can I do this?
Not as a dramatic question.
Genuinely.
Practically.
How long can I maintain this version of my life before it costs me something I can’t get back?
On Thursday, Galina called again.
This time, I answered.
“Clara,” she said, warm and immediately purposeful. “I’ve been thinking about you. Are you and Marcus all right?”
“We’re navigating some things,” I said.
Which was true.
And revealed nothing.
“I spoke to him,” she said.
And something in my chest went tight.
“He’s very hurt, you know. He feels like you’ve been pulling away from the family, like you don’t want us around.”
I held the phone and breathed.
“Galina,” I said, “what did Marcus tell you?”
“Just that things have been difficult lately. That you’ve been unhappy about family visits.”
“Did he tell you that he and I had a conversation last Sunday about what I need from our marriage?”
A slight pause.
“He mentioned there had been some tension.”
“Did he tell you what I said during that conversation?”
Another pause.
“He said you felt the family visited too much.”
I said to her very calmly.
“I needed to be consulted before guests came to our home. I needed to be treated as a partner in this marriage. Those are the things I said.”
I paused.
“The fact that Marcus summarized that as me not wanting the family around is itself informative.”
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