The Dinner I Had Planned to Remember for a Different Reason

“Maybe we should just get a divorce.”

Thomas said it across our dining-room table while his sister Brenda was still laughing about the shopping bags beside my purse. Dinner was nearly over, with six dirty plates on the table and half a pan of baked ziti cooling on the kitchen counter, and I was standing beside the island holding a serving spoon when my husband of seven years suggested ending our marriage as casually as if he were asking whether we should order dessert.

I was eight weeks pregnant, and nobody at that table knew it yet. I had spent most of the afternoon imagining how I would tell Thomas after his mother and sister went home, and the ultrasound photograph was tucked inside my purse beside the prenatal vitamins I had bought earlier that day.

Brenda leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. “Well, somebody finally said it. Maybe you two need to stop pretending everything is fine.”

Thomas’s mother, Carol, looked down at her plate without saying anything, and I slowly set the serving spoon on the counter.

“Do you mean that?” I asked.

Thomas rubbed one hand over his face. “Emma, don’t make this bigger than it is. I’m tired, you’re always stressed, and lately every conversation turns into an argument.”

“You just suggested divorce in front of your family. I’m asking whether you meant it.”

Before he could answer, Brenda looked at the shopping bags near my purse and shook her head. “Thomas has been carrying this whole household for years. Of course he’s tired. I honestly don’t know how you manage to spend this much when he’s the one earning the money.”

I looked at Thomas because he knew exactly how untrue that was. Long before I married him, I had helped build a small software company with two friends, and when we sold it, my share gave me investments that continued producing income. I also worked from home as an independent software consultant, but Thomas’s family had always treated my office as a hobby room because they rarely saw me leave for work.

Thomas had never directly told them I contributed nothing. He simply allowed them to believe it.

That night, he allowed Brenda to say it to my face.

I reached into my purse and touched the white envelope containing the ultrasound photograph. For several seconds, I considered placing it on the table and telling them why I had bought loose sweaters, ginger tea and prenatal vitamins that afternoon.

Instead, I pushed the envelope deeper into my purse.

“Thomas, I’m going to ask you one more time. Do you want a divorce?”

He looked toward his mother before looking back at me. “I don’t know what you want me to say right now.”

“The truth would be enough.”

He didn’t give me one.

I nodded, picked up my purse and walked upstairs.

One Black Suitcase

Thomas came into our bedroom about five minutes later and found a medium-sized black suitcase open across the bed. I was packing enough clothes for several days, along with my laptop, passport, toiletries and a folder containing financial records from before our marriage.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m going to my parents’ house.”

He stared at the suitcase as though my leaving was somehow more extreme than what he had said downstairs. “Emma, come on. I was angry. Brenda kept pushing me, everybody was talking at once, and I said something I shouldn’t have said.”

I folded a sweater before looking at him. “Brenda didn’t ask me for a divorce. You did.”

“I said maybe.”

“And when I asked if you meant it, you couldn’t tell me no.”

Thomas came farther into the room. “You don’t have to leave in the middle of the night because we had one bad dinner.”

I reached into my purse and removed the white envelope.

“I was going to give you this after everybody went home.”

He opened it and stared at the ultrasound photograph. His face changed so quickly that for one moment I almost felt sorry for him.

“Emma, what is this?”

“I’m eight weeks pregnant.”

Thomas sat on the edge of the bed and looked from the photograph to me. “You’re pregnant? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was planning to tell you tonight.”

“Then stop packing. We need to talk about this.”

I zipped the suitcase halfway. “Would knowing I was pregnant have changed what you thought about our marriage, or would it only have changed what you were willing to say in front of your sister?”

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

I finished packing.

When I carried the suitcase downstairs, Brenda was putting leftovers into plastic containers. She looked from the suitcase to me and frowned.

“You’re actually walking out over this?”

“Yes.”

“While you’re pregnant?”

The question was so strange that I nearly laughed. Carol stood beside the table twisting a napkin between her fingers and suggested that everyone should sleep on the situation before making decisions they might regret.

I looked past both women at Thomas.

He still didn’t ask me to stay.

So I rolled the suitcase through the front door and loaded it into my car.

His First Question

My parents lived near San Diego, about two hours away. By the time I reached San Clemente, Thomas had sent two messages.

The first said that we both needed space.

The second said that maybe divorce really was best.

I pulled into a gas station because I didn’t want to read his messages while driving. Under the bright fluorescent lights, I sat behind the wheel with the ultrasound envelope beside the gearshift and read his second message twice.

Then I replied, Okay.

I was about to put my phone down when I remembered the payment due Friday.

Then you should tell Brenda that Tyler’s next tuition payment is due Friday. I won’t be paying it.

My phone rang almost immediately.

I let the first call go unanswered, then the second. When Thomas called a third time, I finally picked up.

“Emma, what do you mean you’re not paying Tyler’s tuition?”

There was no hello and no question about whether I had reached my parents safely. More importantly, there was no question about the baby he had learned existed less than two hours earlier.

“I mean I’m not making the payment.”

“You can’t just stop paying it two days before it’s due.”

“Why can’t I?”

Thomas lowered his voice. “Because Brenda doesn’t have five thousand dollars sitting around, and Tyler is already enrolled for the semester.”

“Then Brenda needs to call the school and discuss her options.”

“This isn’t Tyler’s fault.”

“I agree, but I’m not punishing Tyler. I’m ending a financial arrangement that was never my responsibility.”

I’d paid roughly $35,000 toward my nephew’s private-school tuition over the previous few years. The first time, Brenda was going through a difficult divorce and asked for temporary help so Tyler wouldn’t have to change schools. I agreed because I cared about him, but another shortage appeared the following year, and eventually the invoices simply started coming to me without anyone asking.

Thomas had known about every payment.