“You’re staying home?”
“No.”
“Where are you going?”
“To my sister’s.”
“Emily.”
“I need space.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know.”
Two work outfits. When I came back into the living room, Michael was standing beside the window.
“The condo is yours,” he said.
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
He turned.
“I have acted like being married to you gave me some kind of claim to everything you built before me.”
“I think I convinced myself that if I admitted the condo was yours, I was admitting something about myself.”
“What?”
“That I wasn’t enough.”
I had protected him from every uncomfortable feeling so thoroughly that ultimately he stopped learning how to sit with discomfort.
“You were enough,” I said.
Michael faced me.
“You were enough when you were twenty-eight and renting a studio apartment. You were enough when you were paying off student loans. You were enough when you were building your career.”
