PART 10
He washed.
I dried.
At one point, he handed me a plate.
Our fingers touched.
We both smiled.
Then he said quietly:
“I missed this.”
“What?”
“Doing normal things with you.”
I looked at him.
“So did I.”
He leaned against the counter.
“Rachel?”
“Yes?”
“Would you consider coming home?”
I knew exactly what he meant.
Our condo.
Our old life.
Our marriage.
I took a deep breath.
“I’ll come home.”
His eyes widened.
“Really?”
“But not to the old marriage.”
He nodded immediately.
“I understand.”
“We start over.”
“Okay.”
“We don’t pretend the past didn’t happen.”
“Okay.”
“We don’t use guilt.”
“Okay.”
“And if either of us is unhappy, we talk about it instead of pretending.”
“I promise.”
I smiled.
“Don’t promise.”
He laughed softly.
“Right.”
“Just do it.”
“I will.”
He reached for my hand.
This time, I let him take it.
Six months later, we celebrated my mother’s second clear scan.
She insisted on having a small dinner.
There were only eight people.
My mother.
Diane.
Grant.
My sister.
A few close friends.
At the end of dinner, Diane stood.
She raised her glass.
“I want to say something.”
Everyone became quiet.
She looked at me.
“Rachel, when my son married you, I thought you were simply a kind woman.”
She smiled sadly.
“I didn’t understand how strong you were.”
My eyes filled with tears.
Diane continued.
“And I didn’t understand how easily kindness can be taken advantage of.”
Grant lowered his head.
“I owe you an apology too.”
I shook my head.
“You don’t have to.”
“I do.”
She looked at me.
“I’m sorry I ever accepted your sacrifice as something you owed my family.”
The room became quiet.
My mother reached for my hand.
Diane raised her glass.
“To Rachel.”
Everyone lifted their glasses.
“To Rachel.”
I laughed through my tears.
“That’s enough.”
My mother smiled.
“No.”
She squeezed my hand.
“Let them.”
Later that night, after everyone had gone home, Grant and I sat on the porch.
The city lights stretched across the distance.
He looked at me.
“Do you ever think about that Christmas?”
“All the time.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“Do you think you’ll ever forget it?”
I shook my head.
“No.”
He looked disappointed.
I continued.
“But I don’t need to forget it.”
He looked at me.
“Why?”
“Because forgetting would mean forgetting how much I learned.”
He nodded.
I leaned back in my chair.
“That was the moment I realized I couldn’t keep giving pieces of myself away just to keep a marriage alive.”
He reached for my hand.
“I don’t ever want you to feel that way again.”
“I know.”
We sat quietly.
Then I said:
“You know what the strange part is?”
“What?”
“A year ago, I thought losing you would destroy me.”
He looked at me.
“And now?”
I smiled.
“Now I know losing myself would have been worse.”
He squeezed my hand.
“I never want to be the reason you lose yourself again.”
“You won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I won’t let you.”
He laughed.
“Fair enough.”
A year after we officially reconciled, my mother hosted Thanksgiving dinner.
She stood in the kitchen giving everyone instructions.
Grant was carving the turkey.
I was setting the table.
My mother shouted from the kitchen:
“Rachel! Where are the good plates?”
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