Chapter 7 - THE WOMAN I WAS BEFORE MARRIAGE
My first month in Ballard was strange.
I woke up alone.
Made coffee for one.
Worked late without explaining why.
Spent Sundays walking along the waterfront.
At first, every quiet moment felt like punishment.
Then it began to feel like freedom.
I started seeing a therapist named Dr. Evelyn Park.
During our third session, she asked:
“Who were you before you became Ethan's wife?”
I stared.
“I was still me.”
She smiled gently.
“Of course. But what parts of yourself did you stop expressing?”
I thought.
Then thought some more.
I used to paint.
Not professionally.
Just watercolors.
Landscapes.
Clouds.
The way rain made the city look softer.
I stopped after we married because our weekends were always full.
Dinner parties.
Work events.
Natalie's birthdays.
Natalie's breakups.
Natalie's emergencies.
I had slowly become a woman whose calendar belonged to everyone else.
That evening, I bought paints.
A cheap watercolor set.
Heavy paper.
Three brushes.
I sat at my kitchen table and painted the view from my window.
It wasn't very good.
I loved it anyway.
Meanwhile, Ethan continued therapy.
He didn't send me long emotional messages.
He didn't beg.
He didn't appear unexpectedly.
Once a week, he asked whether I'd like to meet for coffee.
The first two times, I declined.
The third time, I agreed.
We met at a small café near Green Lake.
He looked thinner.
Tired.
But calmer.
We ordered coffee.
For several minutes, we talked about ordinary things.
Work.
Weather.
My apartment.
Then he said:
“I've been thinking about something my therapist asked.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“She asked why I felt responsible for Natalie's happiness.”
I waited.
He looked down.
“When we were twenty, her father died. I was the person she called.”
I nodded.
I knew that story.
“She was devastated. I helped her through it. And somewhere along the way, I started believing that if she was unhappy, I'd failed her.”
I studied him.
“That explains something.”
He nodded.
“It doesn't excuse it.”
I felt my throat tighten.
He continued.
“I let her make me feel necessary. And I liked it.”
I stared.
He looked ashamed.
“Being needed made me feel important.”
For the first time, he was saying something that sounded like the truth.
Not a defense.
Not an explanation designed to make me forgive him.
A truth.
I asked:
“Did you ever love her?”
He looked up.
“Not romantically.”
I searched his face.
He continued.
“But I let her act like she had a claim on me. And I enjoyed being the person she always came back to.”
I looked down.
“That hurt me.”
“I know.”
He swallowed.
“And I am so sorry.”
We sat in silence.
Then he asked:
“How are you?”
I smiled sadly.
“I'm learning who I am without being your wife every minute of the day.”
His eyes filled.
“Is that good?”
I nodded.
“Yes.”
He looked down.
May you like
“I'm glad.”
And I believed him.
