CHAPTER ONE
If it wasn't for the photograph, I would never have gone to the marriage therapist. I didn't want to be told that my happiness was not Richard's responsibility and chastised for not making enough "me time," thanks all the same. And besides, what if the therapist psychoanalyzed away my resentment? How was I supposed to get out of bed in the morning, let alone fill all that new me time, if I didn't have my quiet seething to look forward to? And she would no doubt make me practice Better Communication Techniques and might even—dear God—force me to keep a gratitude journal. But now...well, now even I could see the time had come to seek professional help.
It had all come about at the Honey Café, which was one of those coffee shops with cutesy mismatched teacups, babyccinos for children and inspirational quotes on pegboards such as, "Don't cry because it's over; smile because it happened." To an outsider, by which I mean to a man, I'm sure it seemed like a pretty nice setup. But beneath the Spotify light jazz playlist running on a loop and the unending chatter, there was always at least one person wondering if she was about to start screaming. In fairness, it was usually me.
For me, the Honey Café's sole attraction was its location—directly across the road from Alexis Junior School. It frustrated Richard that I insisted on schlepping theater paperwork and my laptop to the coffee shop every day when he had spent so much money upgrading the home office. He knew I felt I had to keep watch over Mara when she was in the schoolyard. That was another point on which we clashed. Regularly.
On that particular day, the Chickadee moms were reigning supreme at the long table by the cake counter. It was, I couldn't help but overhear, "Kangoo" Monday. They had come straight from the gym for post-workout spirulina smoothies, high on their audaciousness in trying something as crazy as Kangoo, which involved bouncing around for an hour on, no lie, elliptical antigravity boots. Mother Hen—her real name was Gina—was giving advice to a lesser Chickadee who confessed that she had dream-cheated on her husband and was wondering if she should feel guilty. Mother Hen had taken to giving a lot of advice since starting her Instagram account @justanothermuther39, where she posted a stream of perky stayat-home-mom motivational aphorisms, invariably tagged #tradwife #seekingfemininity #homemaking. It was a big hit among the school moms, mainly because everyone wanted to see what her kitchen looked like.
The Chickadees paused their chatter to coo over the Junior and Senior Infants streaming out into the schoolyard for Little Break, skipping and twirling, their cries carrying in gusts. There was a yellow line down the middle that was supposed to separate the classes but they all ignored it, buzzing about to find their friends. Everywhere you looked there was constant movement. Except for one little lone figure with the hood of her purple coat pulled up against the wind that always seemed to cut right across that yard. Mara. She walked in slow circles for a while, not even lifting her head when other children bumped into her. She just moved aside and continued her circuit.
The two teachers on yard duty didn't notice at first. After a few more loops of the yard, Mara came to a stop and just stood there, the wind lifting the sides of her coat and her hair while all the other kids tagged each other and shrieked and hugged. Little shits. Not even one of them could ask her to play?
Mara was now sitting down on the gravel, all by herself. Her teacher came over and bent down beside her, asked her something. She shook her head, and he let her be. That was the worst of it: Mara never complained. When she came home, I'd ask her how school was. Fine, she'd say, smiling. And yard time? Fine. If I hadn't been watching, I'd have believed her.
Between the chatter from the Chickadee table and worrying about Mara, it was even harder to concentrate than usual, so I abandoned Richard's tax return and instead began working my way through our mail and bills.
I was interrupted by the beep of a text coming through on my phone. It was from an 083 number I didn't recognize. The message read: July 25. There was a photo attached, a grainy black-and-white shot of what looked like a hotel. I pinch-zoomed in and saw that, walking up the entrance steps of that hotel, was Richard and a woman, his face turned to smile at her, his hand sliding round her waist.
There was just one problem: the woman wasn't me.
If I'd had to predict my reaction to the possibility that Richard had caught the feels for someone else, I'd have pictured myself lounging in a silk dressing gown, long cigarette holder in one hand, martini in the other, amusing the pool boy with jaded quips about love being an illusion, that kind of thing.
But goddammit if this photo hadn't given me a shock. The same sickening feeling I used to get if I made a mistake during a concert, a jolt that would flare into a jangling of my entire nervous system, taking me out of the moment and lasting for the rest of the performance, making me horribly aware that things had gone off course.
