Page 113 of We Were Something
My eyes grow glassy and I slump back in my chair, taking her hand in mine and resting my arms on the bed next to her.
Mom runs her other hand through my hair, the gesture one that reminds me of the times when I was a child and she’d sit with me on the couch with my head on a pillow in her lap. She’d stroke my hair and I’d tell her what was wrong, usually something stupid I had done. She’d sit with me and help me figure out what I could do to try to fix whatever was wrong.
Maybe this is one of those moments.
“I just want her to be happy,” I say, lifting my head and looking my mom in the eye.
She strokes my hair one more time, the familiar look in her eye only slightly weathered by the years that have passed since the last time she helped me fix something I broke.
“I would bet my last dollar that that girl would be happier sacrificing for you and whatever burdens you think you’re bringing to her life than she ever would be living the life you think she’d rather have without you.”
My mom is downgraded to a regular hospital room the following day, which is a major step in her recovery. She’s able to eat and make short trips to the bathroom, and she begins working with a PT to improve the function of her right hand, the one major long-term issue she seems to be facing other than the general weakness that comes along with a TBI.
Every day, there are fresh flowers delivered to her room. No note or card, just beautiful bouquets with a variety of blooms.
But I know who they’re from.
With every day that my mom grows stronger, I try to figure out what I should do.IfI should do anything. Because as much as I want to do what’s best for Paige, my mother is right.
I shouldn’t be making decisionsforher. I should have talked through things and allowed us to decide together what to do next.
Hell, that should have been what I did with Jen, too. I should have talked to her about the fact that we were at an impasse in our marriage and asked her how we could find a resolution. Instead, I made a unilateral decision for us both. In my mind, I wasn’t going to budge and Jen just needed to get over it.
Which is why I ask Jen if we can talk when she comes by at the end of the next week to check on my mom.
“I know this might feel strange,” I say as the two of us sit down in some chairs outside of the room, “but I want to apologize to you.”
Jen’s eyebrows rise. “For what?”
Letting out a long breath, I take her hand in mine. “I never talked to you about the fact that I didn’t want kids and you did,” I tell her. “I know I told you in the beginning, before we got married, but at some point, you changed your mind, and I ignored you. I was your husband and I loved you, and I should have allowed us to talk it out to decide what to do.”
Her eyes soften and her head tilts to the side as she takes in my words.
“Logan, that’s…I mean, it’s in the past, okay?”
“I know, but that doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be said. Instead of talking to you, I got lost in my work. I should have talked it out with you. That way, we could have decidedtogetherto get a divorce rather than it turning into this big mess.”
Her head jerks back. “What?”
“It wasn’t fair for me to have basically pushed you to find someone else to give you a child,” I continue. “I should have been strong enough to recognize that we had hit a wall we weren’t going to overcome instead forcing you to decide on the divorce on your own. And I’m so sorry.”
“No,” she says, drawing out the word and then taking my hand in hers. “That’s not…I mean, what you’re saying is that we’re going to figure this all out, right? That we shouldn’t have gotten a divorce in the first place.”
I shake my head. “I’m not saying that.”
“But Logan, I still love you,” she says. “And I know you still love me. We can work everything out. Together. We can—”
“There is a part of me that will always love you, Jen,” I tell her, having known that since she served me with divorce papers. “Truly. But I’m not saying we should get back together.”
Jen’s eyes well with tears.
“But I need you,” she whispers. “I can’t do this alone. I can’t.”
I want to pull her into my arms and rub her back and tell her I can help her. I really do. But I know this is not the time to do that. It would only confuse what I’m trying to say.
Maybe in the future, I can embrace her. Pull her in tight with affection that isn’t misconstrued as something more. But not today.
“Youcando it alone,” I tell her. “I know you can do it alone. My mom did it, and you’ll be able to do it too. And you have your parents, and your friends, and there are plenty of services for single moms that—”
