One October night, Marcela came home late, close to midnight. Saul was asleep in his room. I’d spent the greater part of the day with him, looking after him in the afternoon, cooking supper and feeding him, reading to him before bed. The street lamp sent a hazy light through the curtains, and I watched Marcela undress, ready to slip into her side of the bed, beside me. I waited patiently for her in the darkness.
“Where have you been?”
“Grant, I’m sorry. I thought you were asleep.”
She slid into the sheets quietly, facing the window outside, never once looking at me.
“I had something I needed to take care of,” she said.
“What was it this time?”
“Just work. Go to sleep, honey.”
She might have expected me to stop there, but I pressed further. She was lost to me then. She had been for a while, seeing the man she'd met on one of her trips to Paris. I had even seen them in my dreams, their naked bodies, their smooth skin, making the kind of love that I had never known from her. She whispered sweet nothings to him and she had meant them, the way she never had with me, and never would.
“I know you’ve been unfaithful,” I told her, looking up at the ceiling, never once at her. She continued to face the window. She has resigned herself to this marriage, I thought to myself, eyes hot with anger and hurt. All she ever had to do was tell me she wanted out.
“Yes, I have been,” she said.