Because that was true.
She continued.
“You liked telling people I didn’t need to work.”
“You liked saying you had everything handled.”
“You liked being the one everyone depended on.”
“And now you’re acting surprised that I’m scared when suddenly you don’t.”
I had no immediate response.
Marissa zipped the suitcase.
At the bedroom door I asked:
“Are you leaving me?”
She looked exhausted.
“I don’t know.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
Then she said:
“I need to know what my life looks like if this doesn’t get fixed quickly.”
There are sentences that change meaning later.
At the time, I heard:
If you don’t find another high-paying job quickly, I may not want you.
Maybe that was part of what she meant.
But not all of it.
I wouldn’t understand the rest until four days later.
Marissa left.
I stood in the hallway listening to her car disappear down the street.
The dinner remained untouched.
The pistachio cake sat in the refrigerator.
I eventually ate it at midnight with a fork.
