The Wife He Left Behind

004

My hand tightened around my phone as if that would answer the several questions in my head.

I bit on my lower lip, and just then, I finally came to a decision. A decision I never thought I’d ever make in my life.

I was going to leave this marriage and for good.

I was done with all the sh!ts and games Caleb was playing with me.

The next morning, I called an attorney.

She picked on the first ring.

Her name was Patricia Reeves. She had a corner office on Park Avenue and a reputation for representing women who had waited too long.

"Tell me where you are," she said.

"I'm not sure I want a divorce," I said, surprising myself as well. "I just want to understand what it would look like."

"That's where most of my clients start," she said pleasantly.

I told her the basics. Five-year marriage. No signed prenup. Joint assets. My salary was comparable to his at this point — I had worked hard to make sure of that. And I was pregnant, which complicated everything.

Patricia listened without interrupting. Then she said, "You're in a stronger position than you think."

I left her office an hour later feeling something I had not felt in weeks. Not relief, exactly. But clarity.

Caleb was already home when I got back. He was in the kitchen, which surprised me. He rarely cooked.

He had made pasta — the simple kind, olive oil and garlic — and there was a candle on the table. A single small candle.

My brows raised and forehead creased.

I stood in the doorway.

"I thought we could eat," he said. "Talk."

He was trying. I could see that. I wanted it to be enough. I genuinely, desperately wanted it to be enough.

I sat. Then he served the food. We were quiet for a moment and then he said, "I've been thinking about what you told me last night." He said, his voice unusually soft.

"And?"

"And I'm glad. About the baby. I know I didn't say it right last night."

"You didn't say it at all."

"I know." He looked up. "I'm sorry."

There it was. An actual apology. I pressed my hands flat on the table.

"I need you to be honest with me," I said.

"About Ivy. About what's going on."

"Nothing is going on."

"Caleb—"

"I mean it. She's a friend. A complicated one, maybe, but that's all she is."

"She texted me. She has my number."

His fork stopped halfway to his mouth. "What?"

"She sent me a message yesterday. Said you talk about her to me less than you talk about me to her."

He set the fork down. A muscle jumped in his jaw.

"I never gave her your number," he said.

"I know that."

"What she said — that's not true. I don't talk about her to you because there's nothing to say. She's not important."

"Then why does she have access to my number? And why is she texting your wife?" I kept my voice at a calm level.

"That's not what a friend does. That's what someone does when they want to establish dominance."

He was quiet.

"Caleb. I need you to cut contact with her."

Something shifted in his face. He did not say no. He did not say yes. He picked up his fork again.

"We have a history," he said. "I can't just—"

"A history you chose over our anniversary."

"That was a mistake. I told you—"

"I'm asking you to choose." My voice was steady. "Her, or your marriage, or your pregnant wife, your family."

He looked at me across the table. The candle flickered between us.

"You're not being fair," he said.

And there it was. The thing I had been afraid was true. Asking him to choose me, to simply choose me — was not fair.

I stood up. I left my plate untouched.

Walked to the bedroom, closed the door, and pressed my back against it in the dark.

I did not cry. I was past crying.

I picked up my phone and texted Patricia Reeves.

"I'd like to schedule a follow-up consultation."

The reply came back within minutes.

"Monday at nine. I'll have the paperwork ready."