“I can’t keep living like this,” he said, as though trapped by her and not the other way around. “You’ve become impossible. Suspicious. Cold. The boys can’t grow up in this tension.”
She had expected rage or shame or manipulative sadness. Instead he offered managerial fatigue.
“When did you decide that?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Probably around the time you stopped being my partner.”
It was almost impressive, the smoothness with which he rearranged time.
She sat across from him at the dining table and studied the face she had once loved enough to trust with unfinished versions of herself. “And Vanessa?”
His expression sharpened. “This isn’t about Vanessa.”
“Of course it is.”
He set down the glass. “You want honesty? Fine. Vanessa listens. Vanessa understands what this life requires. Vanessa doesn’t make everything into a moral philosophy seminar.”
There it was. Not even guilt. Just irritation at being required to witness his own conduct.
“And the boys?” Eleanor asked.
He looked at her as though that answer too should have been obvious. “They need structure. Stability. Resources.”
“You mean you’ll tell a court I can’t provide those.”
He held her gaze. “Can you?”