Chapter 2

I took the bus home.

I could count the number of times Mark Evans had driven me to work on one hand.

All three times.

Once during our first month of marriage because it was on his way; once when I sprained my ankle; and once when it was pouring rain and he happened to pass the school gate after his night shift.

Three times in four years.

I sat in the very back row of the bus, watching the trees blur past the window.

I kept thinking about the look on his face.

Bafflement.

It wasn't heartache, or guilt, or panic.

It was pure bafflement.

It was as if he couldn't comprehend why I was sitting in that chair, saying those words.

"My husband doesn't care about me at all."

When I said that, I thought he wasn't there.

I thought I could say it to a stranger, let my tears fall, handle the procedure alone, and then go home to continue that quiet, cold life.

I didn't expect him to be there.

And I didn't expect his first words after taking off his mask to be "What are you doing here?"

Not "Why are you crying?"

My phone vibrated.

It was a text from Mark.

Mark: [Come home early tonight. we need to talk.]

I stared at the screen for a long time.

Then I locked it.

I didn't bother replying.

When I got home, I hid the lab report at the very bottom of a drawer.

Then I sat on the sofa and thought for a long time.

Four years ago, when I married him, my mom said, "He's a dependable man."

At the time, I thought being dependable was enough.

Passion can fade, but dependability provides a sense of security.

But I eventually realized that being dependable and actually caring are two different things.

Mark never had affairs, he didn't gamble, and he never laid a hand on me or raised his voice.

By any standard definition, he was a "good man."

He just... never truly saw me.

When I had a 102-degree fever, he sent a two-word text.

When my mom was hospitalized, he told me to handle it first.

When I saw those two lines on the test alone, I stood in the bathroom for half an hour while he slept in the next room with his phone on silent, unaware and unconcerned.

I've been living this marriage alone for four years.

At dusk, I heard the sound of the door lock turning.

Mark was back.

He had changed into casual clothes and stood at the door, looking at me.

"Have you eaten?"

I shook my head.

He went into the kitchen.

The clatter of pots and pans soon followed.

I stayed on the sofa, unmoving.

Twenty minutes later, he brought out two plates of risotto.

He set them on the coffee table, sat across from me, and looked at me.

"Eat first. Then we'll talk."

I looked down at the plate of risotto.

The steam was still rising.

Mushrooms, a poached egg—he knew I liked extra cream cheese.

I picked up the bowl and took the first bite.

Suddenly, my eyes stung.

I turned my face away so he wouldn't see.

It wasn't out of gratitude.

It was because I felt sorry for myself.

In these four years, the few times he made pastas were the rare moments I felt remembered in this marriage.

So rare that I memorized every single instance.

So rare that a simple plate of pasta made me want to cry.

That wasn't right.

The risotto was gone.

Mark took the plates away, came back, and sat down to face me.

"Talk to me."

Just three words.

I looked at him.

"What do you want me to say?"

"About what you said today." He paused. "That I don't care about you."

He repeated the phrase as if translating a foreign expression he wasn't familiar with.

"You feel like I don't care about you."

I looked at him calmly.

"It's a fact, not a feeling."

He was silent for a moment.

"Where did I fall short?"

I almost laughed.

"Mark, do you really need me to provide a checklist for this?"

He said nothing.

I leaned back against the sofa, my voice flat.

"When my mom was in the hospital last year, you said you were busy.

"Two years ago when I had a fever, you sent a two-word text asking if I was better.

"Last month, a parent filed a complaint against me and I was devastated. When you came home, the first thing you asked was if there was any milk in the fridge."

I spoke slowly, as if reading off a list.

With every point, Mark's frown deepened.

"I remember those things," he said. "The day your mother was hospitalized, I had four surgeries scheduled."

"I know."

"When you had that fever, you told me it wasn't serious and not to worry."

"I know."

I looked at him.

"I know you always have a reason.

"And I know that every time I carried the burden alone, you never realized it, because you never bothered to ask afterward."

Mark's hands were on his knees, his fingers tightening.

"You should have told me."

"And if I had, what would have changed?" I asked him.

He didn't answer immediately.

That hesitation was more honest than any words.

I nodded. "That's why I didn't tell you today."

In the clinic, he asked what I was doing there.

Not if I was okay.

Four years later, he's still the same Mark Evans.

"About the baby—" he began.

"I haven't decided yet." I cut him off.

"But I will be the one to make that decision."

Mark looked at me, his lips parting slightly.

"Emily, since when did you start treating me like an outsider?"

I looked down, fingering the ring on my hand.

Platinum. He had picked it out himself and slipped it on my finger on our wedding day.

"It's not that I'm treating you like an outsider," I said.

"It's that for the past four years, you've left me standing there all by myself."

Then it was silence.

A long, heavy silence.

Then I stood up. "I'm going to bed."

I walked into the bedroom and closed the door.

I didn't lock it.

But I knew he wouldn't come in.

Sure enough, it remained silent outside.