Chapter 2 - Three Days With the Guys
Mark sent his first text forty-three minutes after we left the resort.
Made it. House is awesome. Kids having fun?
I stared at the screen from the back of Rachel’s shuttle.
Emma was sitting by the window.
Noah had fallen asleep.
Lily was counting palm trees until she lost track and started again.
I typed:
They’re great.
Nothing more.
A minute later:
You okay?
For six years I had answered questions like that automatically.
Fine.
Of course.
Don’t worry about me.
This time, I locked the phone.
Rachel had arranged everything.
The villa sat near Islamorada, tucked behind palms and bougainvillea.
It wasn’t enormous.
It didn’t need to be.
It had white walls, blue shutters, a shaded patio, and a little plunge pool overlooking water so clear Noah gasped when he saw it.
“Are we rich now?” he asked.
Rachel laughed.
“Nope. Just lucky.”
The kids exploded into motion.
They ran from room to room.
Lily discovered bunk beds.
Emma found snorkeling masks.
Noah spotted tiny fish from the dock.
For the first time since we had left home, nobody asked where Mark was.
That surprised me.
At sunset, we ate grilled fish, rice, pineapple, and key lime pie at an outdoor table.
I realized halfway through dinner that nobody was complaining.
At home, meals with Mark often revolved around his day.
His boss.
His commute.
His deadlines.
The children learned to sense his moods.
If Daddy looked tired, we lowered the volume.
If Daddy had a bad day, we postponed questions.
If Daddy was watching something, the children used headphones.
Here, Lily laughed so hard milk came through her nose.
Noah reenacted it six times.
Emma rolled her eyes but secretly recorded him.
And nobody told them to quiet down.
That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling fan.
I should have felt guilty.
Instead, I felt something more unsettling.
Relief.
Mark had always insisted his presence was essential.
He called himself the provider.
The responsible one.
The person holding the family together financially.
But without him, the atmosphere felt lighter.
The realization frightened me.
The next morning, Mark sent pictures.
Jason holding a fishing rod.
Tyler driving a golf cart.
Four men standing beside a cooler.
Wish you guys were here!
I laughed when I read it.
Not because it was funny.
Because he clearly did not understand the absurdity.
I showed Rachel.
She stared.
“He wished you were at his boys’ weekend?”
“Apparently.”
Rachel handed the phone back.
“You know what your problem is?”
“I have several.”
“You keep expecting Mark to understand things he benefits from not understanding.”
That sentence stayed with me.
That afternoon, Emma and I walked along the beach while Noah and Lily participated in a kids’ marine-life program.
Emma kicked shells through the water.
“Mom?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you mad at Dad?”
Children always knew.
“We’ll talk about it when we get home.”
She nodded.
Then quietly:
“I’m mad at him.”
I stopped.
“Why?”
“Because he always leaves.”
My stomach tightened.
“What do you mean?”
She shrugged.
“Not like leaves-leaves.”
She struggled to explain.
“But he’s always somewhere else.”
Golf.
Phone.
Office.
Garage.
Television.
Headphones.
Friends.
Even when Mark was physically home, Emma had learned to measure his absence.
“He loves you,” I said.
The words came automatically.
Emma looked at the ocean.
“I know.”
Then she added:
“But sometimes loving somebody and liking being with them aren’t the same thing.”
She was ten.
Ten years old.
And somehow she had articulated the thing I had spent years refusing to admit.
That evening, Mark called.
I almost didn’t answer.
Eventually I did.
“Hey,” he said cheerfully. “How’s paradise?”
“Good.”
“Kids behaving?”
“Yes.”
“See? Told you.”
I closed my eyes.
“Told me what?”
“That you guys would be fine.”
There it was again.
I looked across the patio.
Lily was dancing barefoot.
Noah was building something out of plastic cups.
Emma sat reading beneath a hanging lantern.
“We are,” I said.
Mark missed the meaning.
“Great. We’re going deep-sea fishing tomorrow. Jason got us a charter.”
“That sounds nice.”
“You sure you’re not mad?”
“No.”
That answer was technically true.
Anger had burned itself out.
Something colder remained.
“Love you,” Mark said.
I paused.
Then said, “Goodnight.”
After the call, Rachel sat beside me.
“You didn't say it back.”
“I know.”
“What happens when you go home?”
I watched the children.
“I don’t know.”
But that wasn’t completely true.
Some part of me knew.
I simply wasn’t ready to say it aloud.
The third day was our best.
We snorkeled.
A guide showed Noah a nurse shark resting beneath rocks.
Lily screamed when a harmless fish brushed her ankle.
Emma laughed until she cried.
And for three glorious hours, I wasn’t Mark’s wife.
I wasn’t the family manager.
I wasn’t the person responsible for keeping everyone emotionally balanced.
I was Sarah.
A woman floating in warm blue water with her children.
That evening, Mark sent:
Heading back tomorrow morning. Can’t wait for my own bed lol.
I read the message twice.
My own bed.
Not our room.
Not can’t wait to see you.
I placed the phone face down.
Rachel looked at me.
“You ready?”
I nodded.
Because the resort cancellation refund had cleared.
Because Mark’s return flight remained active.
Because I had already emailed a locksmith back home.
Because for six years I had mistaken endurance for commitment.
May you like
And tomorrow, for the first time, Mark was going to experience what it felt like when someone else decided that his comfort was no longer the most important thing in the room.
---
