At first I did not understand.
Then she placed it on the bed.
“Where are you going?”
“My sister’s.”
“For tonight?”
“I don’t know.”
“Marissa.”
She opened a drawer.
Started packing.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
No crying.
No shouting.
That frightened me more.
“What are you doing?”
“I need space.”
“We have been talking for six minutes.”
“Exactly.”
“And everything you’re saying is ‘we’ll figure it out.’”
“Yes.”
“Because we will.”
“You always say that.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
She folded a blouse.
“You handle everything.”
“Money.”
“Insurance.”
“Taxes.”
“Retirement.”
“Repairs.”
“Bookings.”
“If something happens, you fix it.”
I stared at her.
“I thought that was a good thing.”
“It was.”
“Until the person who fixes everything came home without a job.”
That landed.
“You think because I’m unemployed for one evening, I suddenly can’t handle our life?”
“I think I built my whole life around your ability to keep everything safe.”
“Whose choice was that?”
Her eyes flashed.
“Don’t.”
“No.”
“You said it.”
“So answer.”
“Whose choice?”
Marissa stopped packing.
For one second, I saw something behind the fear.
Shame.
Then defensiveness covered it.
“You liked it.”
I went quiet.
Because that was true.
She continued.
“You liked telling people I didn’t need to work.”
“You liked saying you had everything handled.”
“You liked being the one everyone depended on.”
“And now you’re acting surprised that I’m scared when suddenly you don’t.”
I had no immediate response.
Marissa zipped the suitcase.
At the bedroom door I asked:
“Are you leaving me?”
She looked exhausted.
“I don’t know.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
Then she said:
“I need to know what my life looks like if this doesn’t get fixed quickly.”
