Walter was sitting in the living room when I returned.
His water glass was on the small table beside him.
He looked toward the television.
Then he looked at me.
"Did Gerald leave?"
"Yes."
He nodded.
I stood near the doorway.
For years, I had known exactly what he needed.
I knew when he preferred his meals.
I knew which appointments he had coming up.
I knew when his prescriptions needed attention.
I had remembered those things because I cared about him.
I had never considered keeping score.
But after the dinner, I couldn't stop thinking about the way he had spoken to me.
He had said I had taken enough.
I wondered whether he remembered how often I had put my own plans aside to help him.
He looked toward the kitchen.
"Is there any breakfast left?"
I paused.
"I don't know."
He frowned.
"You usually make something."
I looked at him.
"Not this morning."
He seemed confused.
It was as though he had expected the house to continue operating exactly as it always had.
I understood why.
I had made it that way.
If something needed doing, I did it.
If Walter needed something, I arranged it.
If Gerald forgot something, I remembered.
The family had become accustomed to my attention.
And perhaps I had become accustomed to giving it.
But there was a difference between caring for people and being expected to serve them regardless of how they treated me.
I went into the kitchen.
I made myself something to eat.
Walter remained in the living room.
I could hear the television.
I sat at the table and ate slowly.
After a while, he appeared in the doorway.
"Teresa."
I looked up.
"Yes?"
"Your father-in-law is sitting in the living room."
I almost smiled.
"I know where you are, Walter."
He looked displeased.
"I wasn't asking you to do anything unreasonable."
I put down my fork.
"What did you need?"
He hesitated.
Then he said he wanted help arranging something.
I listened.
I didn't interrupt.
When he finished, I told him I would not make arrangements that morning.
He looked surprised.
"Why not?"
"Because I have things I need to take care of."
He stared at me.
"Since when?"
I looked at him.
"Since last night."
He seemed ready to argue.
Then he turned away.
I returned to my breakfast.
It wasn't satisfying.
It wasn't a victory.
I didn't feel pleased watching him walk away.
I simply felt tired of being treated as though my time belonged to everyone else.
Later, I went upstairs and opened the drawer where I had placed the brown envelope.
I took out the papers again.
The acknowledgment was still signed.
The remaining documents were untouched.
I placed them neatly on the dresser.
The company pen lay beside them.
I picked it up.
For a moment, I remembered the boxes of pens arriving at the office.
I remembered checking the order.
I remembered making sure there were enough for everyone.
That pen had become an odd reminder of my life.
I had supplied the tools.
I had organized the work.
I had helped people do their jobs.
And I had done it without thinking that one day somebody might use those same tools to ask me to leave.
I put the pen down.
Then I sat at the edge of the bed.
I wasn't going to let the divorce papers erase the woman I had been.
I wasn't going to pretend I had never contributed anything.
And I wasn't going to accept Walter's version of our family simply because he spoke with authority.
I looked out the bedroom window.
The rain had stopped.
The brick patio was still wet.
A few drops remained along the edge.
I thought about Gerald.
I wondered whether he had spent the morning thinking about our conversation.
I wondered whether he had remembered the Friday meeting.
I wondered whether he understood why I had asked him about it.
I didn't know.
But I knew that the next conversation between us would not be another discussion in which I simply nodded and agreed.
I had done enough of that.
Click here to continue reading: PART 16: Gerald Returned That Evening Expecting My Suitcases to Be Ready, but the Brown Envelope Was Still the Only Thing I Had Moved
The Dinner I Thought Was Ordinary Until My Husband Put an Envelope Beside My Plate
Part 15 of 20
