Chapter 9 - The Illusion of Normalcy
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What made those final, agonizing days almost unbearable was how eerily normal and loving Julian suddenly became. Guilt is a strange motivator, and Julian’s guilt manifested in a sickening display of textbook paternal perfection. It was as if he was trying to proactively pay off his karmic debt before he boarded his flight to Aspen.
Three days before Christmas, he walked through the front door carrying a massive, beautifully crafted wooden train set for Harrison. He swooped our son into the air, laughing loudly, acting like the undisputed hero of the household.
“Do you want me to order dinner from that Italian place you love downtown?” Julian asked me that evening, kissing the top of my head as I stood at the kitchen sink. “You look tired, honey. Let me take care of you tonight.”
I stared at the soapy water, fighting the urge to vomit. “That sounds wonderful, Julian. Thank you.”
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He was playing the role of the attentive husband so flawlessly that, for a fleeting, terrifying moment, I actually questioned my own sanity. Was I making a mistake? Was Isabel just a coworker? Had I misread the texts? But then I remembered Rebecca’s voice, cold and sharp. Protect Harrison.
Julian helped me wrap Christmas gifts late into the night. He poured us both a glass of expensive Cabernet, put on a playlist of classic holiday jazz, and sat beside me under the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree. He was charming, funny, and warm. He was the man I had fallen in love with, resurrected for a farewell performance I wasn't supposed to know was happening.
