Chapter 11: The Last Sunday Dinner

The final Sunday dinner at the farmhouse was quiet.

Our three children sat around the table.

Jim sat across from me.

The pork chops were cooked the way he liked them.

The potatoes were fried in the old skillet.

The quilt my mother had made was folded over the back of my chair.

Nobody talked much.

Finally, Jim looked at me.

“Muriel.”

I raised my eyes.

“I want to thank you.”

I frowned.

“For what?”

“For forty-one years.”

I looked at him.

“You don’t get to thank me as if this was a gift you deserved.”

He nodded.

“I know.”

He swallowed.

“I just want you to know that I will always be grateful.”

I looked at our children.

They were watching us.

I took a slow breath.

“Jim, I loved you.”

He closed his eyes.

“I loved you too.”

I shook my head.

“Maybe you did. But you didn’t protect our marriage.”

He nodded.

“I know.”

I stood.

“I hope you become a better father to all five of your children.”

His eyes filled with tears.

“I will.”

I looked at him for a long moment.

Then I said the words I had been carrying for weeks.

“I am not leaving because I stopped loving the man I married.”

Jim looked up.

“I am leaving because I can no longer live with the man you became.”

The room fell silent.

I picked up my purse.

And I walked out.

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