By the time I reach home, the sky has darkened, although I barely notice it. I park the car in the driveway and remain behind the wheel for several minutes, staring at the front door while the image of Mark standing with my mother keeps replaying in my mind. I try to convince myself that there must be something I do not understand, but every time I close my eyes, I see his hands around her waist, and the hope of finding an innocent explanation becomes harder to hold on to.
I finally step out of the car and slam the door behind me before walking toward the house. My heels strike the driveway with angry clicks, and I realize I am still wearing the dress I chose because I wanted Mark to notice me. I look down at it and feel another wave of humiliation. I had spent the morning making myself beautiful for my husband, only to discover that he had been holding my mother in his arms while I was on my way to surprise him.
When I open the front door, the familiar warmth of the house does nothing to comfort me. Instead, everything I see seems to remind me of Mark. His favorite chair is still positioned beside the fireplace, his books occupy most of the shelves in the study, and the photographs scattered throughout the house show the two of us smiling through years of celebrations, vacations, birthdays, and ordinary days that I once believed were proof that we were happy.
I stop beside the photograph hanging above the console table and stare at it. Mark has one arm around my waist while I lean against him with a smile that now feels like it belongs to someone else. I pick up the frame, study our faces for another moment, and then turn it facedown on the table because I cannot bear to keep looking at the man I thought I knew.
I walk into the kitchen and find the dinner I prepared that morning still waiting on the dining table. I had planned to come home with Mark after surprising him at the office, open a bottle of wine, and tell him everything about the new apartment while we ate. I had even imagined teasing him about the dress because I knew he would pretend not to notice how much effort I had put into looking good for him.
The memory makes my chest ache, and I pick up the first plate before dumping its contents into the trash. I throw away the second plate immediately afterward, followed by the serving dish and the food I had spent the morning preparing. By the time I finish, my hands are trembling, but I do not stop until the table is empty.
“How could you?” I whisper, although there is no one in the room to answer me. The question is not only for Mark. It is for my mother too. I wipe my cheeks and force myself to straighten because standing in the kitchen crying will not change what happened. I need something else to occupy my mind, so I turn toward the folder containing the apartment documents I left on the kitchen island that morning and pick it up.
I open the folder and slowly turn through the pages, remembering how excited I had been when Mark and I decided to get a place of our own. We had spent months discussing what we wanted, where we wanted to live, and what kind of home we would create together once we no longer had to divide our time between family obligations and Mark's demanding schedule. I had believed the apartment represented the beginning of a new chapter for us.
I touch the address printed on the page and swallow against the tightness in my throat. I had imagined waking up there beside him. I had imagined choosing furniture together, arguing over paint colors, hosting dinners, and eventually filling the rooms with memories that belonged only to us. Now I cannot even look at the paperwork without wondering whether any of those plans had ever meant as much to Mark as they had to me.
My phone begins ringing before I can turn another page. I glance at the screen glowing with Mark's name.
I let the call ring until it stops. A few seconds later, he calls again. I watch his name appear for the second time, then disappear when I refuse to answer. When the phone rings a third time, anger finally overtakes my exhaustion, and I pick it up. “What?”
“Violetta.”
The sound of his voice makes my fingers tighten around the phone. “Don't say my name as though nothing happened.”
“I know you're upset.”
“Upset?” I walk away from the kitchen and pace across the living room. “You think I'm simply upset?”
“I know what you saw.”
“Then you know exactly why I'm upset.”
“Please let me explain.”
I stop beside the sofa and stare at the photograph of us sitting on the mantel. “Explain what, Mark? Why you were holding my mother? Why she kissed you? Or why neither of you looked particularly surprised when I walked in?” He remains silent for several seconds. “That should have been your first reaction,” I continue. “You should have pushed her away the moment you saw me. You should have come after me. Instead, you stood there as though I had interrupted something you had every right to be doing.”
“Violetta, it wasn't supposed to happen this way.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Then how was it supposed to happen?”
He sighs heavily. “You need to understand that this isn't as simple as you think.”
I close my eyes because I already know that whatever comes next will be an excuse. “Then make me understand.”
“There has been a lot of pressure on me lately. From the company and my position.”
I grip the phone more tightly. “What does any of that have to do with my mother?”
Mark hesitates, and that hesitation tells me that he has already decided what he is going to say. “I need a child, Violetta.”
For several seconds, I cannot respond. I stare at the floor while the memory of every conversation we have ever had about children rushes through my mind. “You knew I couldn't give you one,” I finally say.
“I know.”
“You told me it didn't matter.”
“It did not matter at first.”
I close my eyes. “At first?”
“My position has changed. The pressure on me has changed. You know what being CEO requires, and you know how much my family expects from me.”
I laugh quietly, although there is nothing amusing about any of it. “So this is what you have decided?”
“I am trying to protect my future.”
“And you decided that protecting your future required sleeping with my mother?”
“Don't make it sound like that.”
“How else am I supposed to make it sound?”
His voice becomes more defensive. “You know how important my position is. If I lose the company, everything we have built could disappear.”
I look around the room at the house I once thought represented everything we had built together. “You keep saying ‘we,’” I say. “But when you made this decision, did you think about me?”
“I was thinking about our future.”
“No, Mark. You were thinking about yours.”
He falls silent. I walk toward the window and stare into the dark yard. “You knew how much I wanted to have a child with you. You knew how many times I blamed myself because it wasn't happening. You knew how many times I cried after appointments, and you told me that it didn't change the way you felt about me.”
“I still love you.”
“Then why am I the one who has to pay for something I couldn't control?”
“I never said this was your fault.”
“You didn't have to.” My voice breaks, and I wipe away the tears that slip down my cheeks. “You just explained that you needed something I couldn't give you, and then you told me that you had to find another way because your position required it. What am I supposed to think?”
“I wanted you to understand.”
“I understand perfectly.” I turn away from the window. “You decided that your position mattered more than our marriage.”
“That's not what I said.”
“It is exactly what you said.” He tries to speak again, but I cut him off. “You could have told me the truth. You could have admitted that having a child was more important to you than staying faithful to me. You could have asked me to leave if you believed I was no longer enough. Instead, you kept me beside you while you did this behind my back.”
“Violetta, please.”
I shake my head. “I don't want your explanation anymore.” I end the call before he can respond. For several minutes, I remain standing in the middle of the room with my phone in my hand. For years, I have carried the fear that my inability to have a child made me inadequate as a wife. I had tried not to let it affect our marriage, especially because Mark always insisted that he loved me regardless. Whenever another disappointing appointment left me in tears, he had held me and promised that we would find another way to be happy. Now I wonder how many of those promises he had meant.
I sit on the sofa and stare at my hands until another memory pushes through the pain. Several years earlier, I received an offer from a company in another city. The position was far better than anything I had expected, and the salary alone would have changed my financial situation. It would have given me greater responsibility, a chance to advance my career, and the independence I had always wanted.
I had been thrilled when I first received the offer. I remember sitting at the dining table with my laptop open and calling Mark because he was the first person I wanted to tell. I had expected him to be proud of me. Instead, he had gone quiet. When I asked what was wrong, he had reminded me that the position would require me to move to another city. I had told him that we could make the marriage work from different cities if necessary, but he had asked whether my career was more important to me than the life we were building together. At the time, I had been terrified of losing him so I declined the offer. I had told myself that there would always be another opportunity and that marriage sometimes required sacrifice. I had convinced myself that choosing Mark was not giving something up because we were supposed to be building a future together.
Now, sitting alone in the house that suddenly feels like a stranger's home, I realize exactly what that decision cost me. I get up and walk toward the study. The old documents are still stored in the bottom drawer of the cabinet, and after searching through several folders, I find the correspondence from the company that offered me the position. I carry the folder to the desk and open it carefully.
The original offer is still there. I read every page, from the salary to the position to the responsibilities attached to it. The opportunity is just as impressive now as it was when I received it, and for the first time, I allow myself to wonder what my life would have looked like if I had accepted it. Perhaps I would have built something of my own. Perhaps I would have become financially independent years ago. Perhaps I would have discovered that I never needed to sacrifice my ambitions to keep a marriage alive.
I pick up my phone and search for the company's current contact information. My thumb hovers over the number. I hesitate because the offer is years old, and I have no idea whether they would even remember me. Still, the thought of letting another opportunity disappear because I am afraid makes something inside me harden. I press call. A woman answers after several rings, and I introduce myself before explaining that I was offered a position with the company several years ago but ultimately declined it.
There is a short pause after I give her my name. “Violetta?”
“Yes.”
“I remember you.”
I sit straighter in my chair. “You do?”
“Of course. We were very disappointed when you turned down the position. Your qualifications were exceptional.”
I glance at the old offer letter on the desk. “I wanted to ask whether there might be another opportunity available.”
The woman tells me that the company has been expanding and that there may be a senior position suitable for my experience. She asks whether I would be interested in discussing it, and I do not hesitate this time. “Yes.”
“We can arrange the paperwork immediately,” she says. “Given your previous offer, there is no reason for us to treat you like a new applicant.”
My eyes fill with tears, but this time they do not come from humiliation. “Are you saying the position is available?”
“I am saying that if you are ready to come, we are ready to have you.”
I look down at the offer letter and run my fingers over the company's name. “I am ready.”
By the time the call ends, I am still sitting at the desk, staring at my phone. I begin gathering the documents I will need for the move. My employment records go into one folder, followed by my identification documents and the paperwork from the apartment. As I sort through the apartment documents, one page catches my attention. I read the ownership information and frown because the names listed on the document do not immediately match what I remember about the property. I turn the page and check the address again. It is the same apartment Mark and I had planned to share.
I read the document a second time, but the legal language is complicated enough that I cannot immediately understand why the ownership details seem different from what I expected. I am too exhausted to make sense of it tonight, so I place the page back into the folder and make a mental note to ask the lawyer about it when I begin the divorce process.