“I’m not choosing anyone,” Rob protests, but he looks embarrassed.
“Yeah,” I say, “and that’s the problem. You’re Annie’s father. And that counts for so much more than whatever you are to the girl you’ve been dating for thirty-five seconds. You should be choosing Annie. Always. In every situation. And when Annie’s wrong, yes, you have to let her know, but not in a way that makes her feel like you’re picking someone else over her. You’re her father, Rob. And if you don’t start acting like it, you’re going to crush her.”
“I’m not trying to hurt her,” he says. And from the slight whine to his voice, I know he means it, for whatever that’s worth.
“You also have to be aware of how the people you let into your life treat her,” I continue. “If you’re dating someone who’s going out of her way to hurt your daughter, don’t you think there’s maybe something wrong with that? On a few different levels?”
Rob looks down and shakes his head. “There’s no way for you to know the whole situation.” He scratches the back of his neck and turns to look out the picture window for a long time. I follow his gaze to a gaggle of white sailboats bobbing on the perfectly blue horizon, and I wonder whether he’s thinking, as I am, about the days early in our marriage, when he and I used to take the boat out on the water near Boston without a care in the world. Then again, it occurs to me that I was pregnant at that time, and very apt to get seasick, and Rob would just look away as I threw up over the side of the boat. He always got what he wanted—his pliable, willing wife alongside him, creating a picture-perfect couple—and I always pasted a smile on and made it work. Had that been the nature of our whole marriage? Could it be summed up that easily, in the image of me vomiting off the side of a sailboat while Rob pretended not to notice?
We turn back to each other at the same moment, and I wonder whether, on some level, he’s aware of what I’m thinking. He surprises me by bowing his head and saying, “I’m sorry. You’re right.”
I’m so startled that I can’t even find the words to respond. I’m not sure he’s conceded to anything in the entire time I’ve known him. “Okay,” I say finally.
“I’ll take care of it,” he says. “I’m sorry I hurt her.”
“Okay,” I say, and I really am grateful. Not to him, because he’s the one who screwed up and inflicted harm on my daughter in the first place. But I’m grateful for the fact that Annie won’t have to suffer anymore, and that she still has a father who cares at least a little bit, even if he has to be nudged in the right direction in order to do the right thing.
I’m also grateful, more so than I’d previously realized, to be out of this life with my ex-husband. My mistake wasn’t in letting the marriage end; it was in fooling myself into believing that marrying him was a good idea in the first place.
I think suddenly of the stories Alain has told me about Mamie and Jacob, and I realize, with a crushing clarity, that I’ve never had anything even close to that. Not with Rob, not with anyone. I’m not sure I even believed in it before, so it never felt like I was missing anything. Alain’s stories are making me sad, not just for Mamie but for myself.
I smile at Rob, and as I do, I realize I’m grateful for something else too. I’m grateful that he let me go. I’m grateful that he felt it necessary to have an affair with a twenty-two-year-old. I’m grateful that he took it upon himself to end our marriage. Because that means that there’s a tiny chance, however small, that it’s not too late for me after all. Now I just have to find a way to believe in the kind of love Alain’s talking about.
“Thank you,” I say to Rob. And without another word, I turn and head for the door. Sunshine is standing in the front garden, her hands on her hips, looking pissed, as I walk out the front door. I wonder whether she’s been standing there the entire time, trying to string together words to say to me. If so, I must remember to congratulate Rob on his pick of an intellectual superstar.
“You know, you can’t be rude to me at my own house,” Sunshine says, again tossing her long ponytail back and forth in a way that makes her look like a stubborn horse with a twitchy tail.
“I’ll bear that in mind if I ever come to your house,” I tell her brightly. “But since this is not your house, but rather the house I lived in for the last decade, I’d suggest you keep your comments to yourself.”