Chapter 19 - The New Normal
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Daniel leaned his shoulder against the kitchen doorframe, looking at me with a vulnerability I hadn't seen in years.
“Do you hate me?” he asked, bracing himself for the answer.
I thought about it for a long moment, searching my heart for the white-hot rage that used to live there. I found nothing but calm acceptance.
“No, Daniel. I don't hate you.”
That simple, honest answer seemed to hurt him infinitely more than a 'yes' would have. Hate requires passion. Apathy is the true opposite of love.
“I was definitely angry enough to hate you for a long time,” I admitted.
“What changed?”
“I got tired of carrying it around.”
He nodded slowly, staring at the scuff marks on the hardwood floor. “I hate myself sometimes. For what I threw away.”
“Don’t do that,” I said firmly.
He looked up, surprised by my defense. “I mean it, Daniel. Hating yourself is just another way of making everything about you. It’s entirely unproductive.”
I picked up the final cardboard box from the counter, resting it on my hip.
“Instead of hating yourself,” I continued more gently, “just focus on becoming someone who wouldn’t do it again. That’s much more useful to whoever you meet next.”
Daniel wiped his face, offering a tight, grateful nod. “I wish I’d been that person before.”
“So do I.”
Our divorce became legally final in late September. Eleven years of shared history reduced to a bored judge confirming that we both understood the terms of the settlement agreement and banging a wooden gavel.
I fully expected to cry when I walked out of the courtroom. I did not.
Outside the heavy courthouse doors, Daniel and I stood awkwardly beside each other in the crisp autumn air. He put his hands deep into the pockets of his slacks, looking lost.
“So this is it,” he said, his breath pluming slightly.
“Yes. It is.”
“I’m sorry, Emily. For all of it.”
“I know you are, Daniel.”
He looked at me for a long, heavy moment, committing my face to memory. Then he asked, “Do you think we’ll ever be friends?”
“Maybe someday,” I replied truthfully. It was not a promise, and we both knew it.
We hugged once. Not like passionate lovers, and not like bitter enemies. We hugged like two weary people saying a final goodbye to a life they had once firmly believed would last forever.
I drove to my new apartment in the city. At six o'clock, my phone rang. It was Margaret.
“Are you okay?” she asked immediately.
“Yes. I really am.”
“Do you want company tonight?”
“No, I think I just want to be alone.”
There was a brief pause on the line. “Do you want pie?”
I laughed out loud. “What kind of pie?”
“Apple. Freshly baked.”
“Then yes, absolutely.”
May you like
Twenty minutes later, Margaret knocked on my apartment door carrying half an apple pie and two forks. We sat on the floor, surrounded by half-unpacked moving boxes, and ate the pie directly out of the aluminum tin.
She did not mention Daniel’s name once the entire evening. Neither did I. That silent solidarity was one of the kindest things anyone has ever done for me.
