Three weeks after the pharmacy incident, Jim came to the farmhouse.
I was sitting on the porch.
He stood at the bottom of the steps.
“Muriel.”
I didn’t invite him up.
“What do you want?”
He looked exhausted.
“I want to talk.”
“You’ve had thirteen years to talk.”
He swallowed.
“I know.”
I stared at him.
“Why?”
He lowered his eyes.
“I don’t know how to explain it.”
“Try.”
He sat on the bottom step.
“Claire was lonely. I was lonely. Things happened.”
I laughed.
“Things happened?”
He rubbed his face.
“I made a terrible mistake.”
“Thirteen years isn’t a mistake, Jim.”
He looked up.
“I know.”
“You had two children.”
He nodded.
“You had a home for them.”
“Yes.”
“You had a whole life.”
He began crying.
“Yes.”
I leaned forward.
“And you had me.”
His shoulders shook.
“Yes.”
I stared at him.
“Did you ever think about what would happen if I found out?”
He whispered.
“Every day.”
That answer hurt more than anything else.
“Every day?”
He nodded.
“And you still kept going?”
He covered his face.
“I was afraid.”
I stood.
“Afraid of losing me?”
“Yes.”
I shook my head.
“Then you should have stopped.”
He looked up.
“I know.”
I stepped back.
“Do you know what I remember most about our marriage?”
He looked at me.
“I remember ironing your shirt for our fortieth anniversary dinner. You gave me a card with roses on it. You wrote, ‘Still my girl.’”
Jim began crying harder.
“I meant it.”
I looked at him.
“Then what was I?”
He couldn’t answer.
I waited.
Finally, he whispered.
“You were my wife.”
I shook my head.
“No, Jim. I was the woman who kept your life together while you built another one.”
He bowed his head.
I went inside.
And I closed the door.
