If You Only Knew

When Evander sees his mother there, his beautiful face lights up. A lump hardens my throat, and I wipe my eyes on my sleeve.

We take our seats and Evander bows to the judges and begins.

He aces it. I can tell because Leo smiles the whole way through.

When he’s done, and the judges are asking him questions and telling his mother what a special gift he has, when the maestro guy shakes Leo’s hand and claps him on the back, I catch Evander’s eye and blow him a kiss, then put my hands over my heart. He smiles, my gift.

Then I slip out the back, the music from Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsody Number Two—now the most perfect and beautiful piece of music I’ve ever heard—echoing and ringing in my soul.

Rachel

On the morning of Jared and Kimber’s wedding, the plan is for me to shower and get ready while Adam watches the girls. We’ll put them in their flower girl dresses at the last possible second to avoid any accidents.

I take my time. For the past three and a half years, showers have been a necessity, not a luxury. Today, I shave my legs, condition my hair for the entire three minutes. I use a different shower gel, the really nice stuff Jenny gave me for Mother’s Day.

I can’t wait to see the final version of the wedding gown she made for Kimber. Somehow or another, I know she’ll pull it off. It looked a little drab at its last incarnation, but Jenny’s never made a dull dress in her life. All those changes Mrs. Brewster wanted didn’t make her job easy, but I know the dress will be stunning.

Oddly enough—given my advanced age of forty—I’m really looking forward to today. I haven’t been to a wedding in a long time, and even after these past few months and my schizophrenic views on marriage, I think Jared and Kimber will last. There’s a part of some wedding ceremonies where the minister asks the guests if they’ll support the couple. My answer will be a wholehearted yes.

It still galls me that Mrs. Brewster thought she could buy me off somehow. Or separate Kimber and Jared. That same night, Adam and I had dinner with the happy couple, and I watched them, their long looks at each other, the flush in her cheeks, the way Jared reached out to touch her ear, as if he couldn’t go another minute without a little caress.

I remember feeling that way about Adam when things were new.

I also remember my own smugness...that somehow, because I was so careful and well behaved—the attentive listening, the regular sex, my self-appointed role as #1 Fan of Adam Carver—our marriage was insulated. That what happened to those other foolish couples would never happen to us because I was so on guard against it.

I lost myself in becoming Adam’s wife, and later, the girls’ mother. I forgot to be a person, too, a person who was well within her rights to say, “I’m too tired, tonight, honey. How about a back rub instead? I would really appreciate it.”

And while Adam cheated, and I don’t excuse that, maybe I had a little more of a role in that than I wanted to admit.

Well. Time to get on with this.

I put on my bridesmaid dress, which is an ice-blue sleeveless chiffon. Pretty, if a little boring. Luckily, the Mrs. Brewster-approved hairstyle for bridesmaids is a French twist, which I can do myself.

I sit at my dressing table and start doing my makeup. Foundation. A little powder. Blush. Eye shadow. Mascara. Lip gloss.

I like my face. I have a few crow’s-feet, sure. My skin’s not as elastic as it used to be... I gained a lot of weight when I was pregnant, as one tends to do with three babies inside, and it shows.

But this is the face of a woman who’s been through a lot, a woman who has lost a lot and held on to a lot, too.

This is the face my daughters love, the face they look to for comfort and unconditional love, for patience.

For wisdom.

For guidance.

Adam comes in. He’s already dressed in a dark blue suit, the same type he wears to work every day. Men have it so easy. “The girls are watching a movie,” he says. His eyes look me up and down, a slow, appreciative sweep. “Wow. You look amazing, Mrs. Carver.”

“Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself.”

He smiles, and I feel that old stir of attraction for him.

Then his phone buzzes. He takes it out, looks at it, puts it back without answering. Smiles at me once more.

“I want a divorce,” I say.

I don’t know who’s more surprised. His mouth opens, and I glance at my reflection, almost as if I’m checking to see who’s speaking. It’s New Rachel...but it’s Old Rachel, too. There’s no anger in my face. There’s just...me.

I will not stay married to a man I can’t trust. Forget the sex, forget Emmanuelle. My husband lied to me, more than once, and he will lie to me again. My heart knows the truth. It always has.

I deserve better.

“I can’t believe you’re bringing this up again,” he says. There’s a hardness to his voice, and I’m oddly unaffected by it.

“I’m sorry, Adam. I can’t stay married to you.”

“Look, I’ve told you a thousand times. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too.”

And I am. I’m sorry it won’t work between us, but something is cracking open in my chest, and instead of heartache, it feels more like...certainty. These past few months of not knowing how to be, of trying to see this situation from every angle...they’re over.

I know what to do.

His face flushes with anger, something I’ve seen more in the past three months than in the past ten years. “So you’re going to be an independent woman? You’re gonna work full-time?”