Claire and I attended a small gathering with several former clients she had invited anonymously enough that no one discussed why they knew her.
At the end, she pulled Claire aside.
Then me.
“You two surprised me.”
I laughed.
“That sounds encouraging.”
She smiled.
“Most couples who arrive where you did do not reconcile.”
“We almost didn’t.”
“I know.”
She looked at Claire.
“What changed?”
Claire answered:
“I stopped trying to get him to forgive me.”
Dr. Levin nodded.
Then looked at me.
“And you?”
I thought.
“I stopped treating forgiveness as a verdict.”
She smiled.
“Explain.”
“I thought if I forgave her, that meant what she did wasn’t bad enough to leave over.”
“And if I left, that meant forgiveness had failed.”
“Eventually I realized forgiveness and reconciliation were separate decisions.”
“I could forgive and leave.”
“Or forgive and try.”
Dr. Levin nodded.
“Exactly.”
Claire squeezed my hand.
We drove home.
Halfway there she said:
“Do you regret staying?”
I looked at her.
“Do you?”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No.”
I thought.
“Not now.”
“Did you?”
“Many times.”
She smiled sadly.
“Me too.”
That honesty was another thing our younger marriage would not have survived.
Older love had room for ambiguity.
When our children left home, Claire and I moved from the large suburban house.
The kitchen where she had placed the pregnancy test.
The filing cabinet.
The staircase.
The table.
We had lived there for nearly thirty years by then.
Selling it felt strange.
On the final day, the rooms stood empty.
Claire and I walked through together.
In the kitchen she stopped.
Looked at the place where the table had been.
“I hate this room.”
I smiled.
“No, you don’t.”
“No.”
She sighed.
“I hate one morning in this room.”
“That I understand.”
She looked toward me.
“Do you remember exactly where your ring landed?”
“Yes.”
“Of course you do.”
I walked to the approximate spot.
Pointed.
“Here.”
Claire stood beside me.
“I thought I had control.”
“I know.”
“I thought if I gave you two terrible choices, you’d choose the one I wanted.”
“I know.”
She shook her head.
“What an awful person.”
I looked at her.
“You were not an awful person.”
“You did an awful thing.”
“Several.”
She laughed.
“Several.”
I continued:
“If I had reduced you to your worst year, we would not be standing here.”
Claire looked at me.
“If I had expected you to forget that year, we wouldn’t either.”
We stood quietly.