“He didn’t remove your wife.”
Gerald crossed his arms.
“I just think my feelings matter too.”
“They do.”
For half a second, relief crossed his face.
Then I continued.
“They matter because they showed me something I never saw before.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you measured my suffering against your preferences and decided your preferences were more important.”
His expression hardened.
“That’s not fair.”
“No. Fair would have been believing me when I said I was in pain.”
He scoffed.
“I believed you.”
“You minimized it.”
“I did not.”
“You called years of pain complaining.”
His mouth opened, then closed.
He knew what he’d said.
For the first time since I came home, his confidence slipped.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he muttered.
“I heard exactly how you meant it.”
The room went quiet.
Then my phone buzzed.
My mother was checking on me.
I answered without thinking.
“Honey, are you home?” she asked.
“I am.”
“How are you feeling?”
I looked at Gerald.
“My recovery is going well.”
She paused.
“Is everything okay?”
Before I could answer, Gerald reached toward my arm.
“Don’t start telling people our private business.”
I pulled away.
“My private business?”
“Our argument.”
“My medical recovery became your argument.”
“Lyla.”
I took a breath.
“Mom, can I call you back in a few minutes?”
“Of course. Love you.”
“I love you too.”
I ended the call.
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