Chapter 8 - THE HOUSE WITH THE YELLOW KITCHEN
I returned home on Wednesday.
Not to reconcile.
To collect my belongings and photograph the condition of the property for my attorney.
Owen wasn't supposed to be there.
But his truck was in the driveway.
I sat in my car for several minutes before going inside.
He was standing in the kitchen.
The yellow kitchen.
The one we'd painted together on a Sunday afternoon eleven years earlier.
He looked up when I entered.
“Becca.”
I put my keys on the counter.
“I thought you'd be at work.”
“I wanted to see you.”
I looked around.
A coffee mug in the sink.
His jacket on a chair.
A stack of unopened mail.
Everything looked ordinary.
That was the cruelest part.
A marriage could be falling apart while the refrigerator hummed and the dishwasher waited to be emptied.
“I'm here for clothes,” I said.
He nodded.
Then he asked, “Did you talk to Camille?”
“Yes.”
His expression hardened.
“What did she tell you?”
“Enough.”
“She doesn't understand the business.”
I looked at him.
“Neither do I, apparently.”
“That's not fair.”
I almost laughed.
He stepped closer.
“Rebecca, I know I've made mistakes.”
“Stop calling them mistakes.”
He froze.
“A mistake is ordering too much produce. A mistake is forgetting a supplier payment. You made decisions, Owen. Repeatedly.”
His eyes filled.
“I know.”
“No, you don't. You keep talking like this happened to you.”
He looked away.
I went upstairs.
Our bedroom smelled like his cologne.
I opened the closet and found my old hospital scrubs folded on the top shelf.
I hadn't worn them in years.
I held the navy fabric against my chest.
For a moment, I remembered who I had been before my entire life revolved around Owen's restaurants.
A nurse.
A woman who knew how to remain calm when people were frightened.
A woman who could make difficult decisions without asking her husband's permission.
I put the scrubs in my suitcase.
Then I noticed something beneath the shelf.
A small cardboard box.
Inside were photographs.
College photographs.
Owen and Camille.
At parties.
On beaches.
At graduation.
I didn't care that he had kept them.
People were allowed to have pasts.
But beneath the photographs was a folded envelope.
My name was written across the front.
I recognized Owen's handwriting.
Inside was a letter.
Rebecca,
I don't know how to tell you this without destroying everything.
The date was from eight months earlier.
My hands began shaking.
I have been lying to you about Camille, about the expansion, and about what I want from our marriage.
I sat on the bed.
The letter continued.
You gave up so much for me that I don't know how to leave without becoming the villain.
I read that sentence three times.
Then came the line that changed something permanent inside me.
Sometimes I think it would be easier if you found out and made the decision for both of us.
I lowered the paper.
He had wanted me to discover the affair.
He had wanted me to end the marriage.
He simply hadn't wanted to be responsible for ending it himself.
I heard footsteps behind me.
Owen stood in the doorway.
He saw the letter.
His face drained.
“Rebecca.”
I held it up.
“You wrote this eight months ago.”
He closed his eyes.
“I never sent it.”
“Why?”
“Because I couldn't.”
“You couldn't leave?”
He shook his head.
“I couldn't lose you.”
I stood.
“No. You couldn't bear being the man who left.”
His eyes filled.
“That's not true.”
“You wanted me to do the painful part for you.”
He said nothing.
I folded the letter.
“I'm keeping this.”
He nodded.
I carried my suitcase downstairs.
At the front door, Owen spoke.
“Do you remember when we bought this house?”
I stopped.
He continued.
“You said it was the first place that ever felt completely safe.”
I looked at the yellow kitchen.
“Yes.”
His voice broke.
“I ruined that.”
For once, he didn't ask me to make him feel better.
I turned toward him.
“Yes, Owen. You did.”
Then I walked out.
That evening, I called Allison.
“I want to file for divorce.”
She was quiet for a moment.
“Are you sure?”
I looked at the suitcase beside Megan's guest bed.
May you like
“Yes.”
And for the first time since the wedding, I meant something without hesitation.
