Page 60 of The Space He Left
Mom was reading in the living room when I got home, Emma asleep upstairs.
"How was it?" she asked, looking up from her book.
"Nice. Really nice. I'd forgotten what it felt like to be around adults."
"Good. You need more of that." Mom marked her place in the book. "You look... lighter somehow. More like yourself."
I thought about that as I got ready for bed. Did I look lighter? Did I feel different after a few hours of being treated as an adult woman rather than a victim of circumstances?
The answer, I realized, was yes.
Which made Doug's suggestion both more appealing and more complicated. If I was starting to feel like myself again, what did that mean for my marriage? What did it mean for the possibility of reconciling with Jack?
On Tuesday, during one of Jack's visits with Emma, I found myself watching him through the window as he played with her in the backyard. I usually went out when he visited. There were no more supervised visits at his parents' house. I'd given Jack free rein to do what he liked with Emma, take her where he liked during his time with her. Sometimes he took her out. Sometimes he stayed with her here in her space.
He looked different, too – thinner, more serious, but also more present when he was with Emma. He'd given up the distracted, phone-checking behavior that had characterized the last months of our marriage. When he was with Emma, he was completely focused on her.
But when he brought her back inside, our interaction was as politely distant as always, though I saw the cracks in hiscomposure. As he passed Emma to me, his fingers brushed against mine, and I saw a flicker in his eyes - a longing to hold on for a second longer, to offer the kind of comforting squeeze he always used to. He pulled back quickly, as if he'd touched a hot stove, his expression shuttered. He was holding a rigid line, not because he wanted to, but because it was the line I had drawn for him. The supervised visits may have gone, but the threat of divorce had not been rescinded.
The quiet acts of service, however, continued. The groceries still appeared, but now they were preceded by a low-pressure text:Hey, passing the market. Need milk or anything for Emma?The lawn was still mowed, but now he’d message first:Crew is in your area tomorrow, is it okay if they stop by?He was still taking care of us, but now he was asking for permission, giving me the agency I'd lost.
Sometimes, in a moment of easy conversation about Emma, he’d forget the wall between us. "Harps, did you see... I mean, Harper. Sorry." The correction was always quick, a small, sharp reminder of the distance he was so carefully trying to maintain.
The biggest slip had come last week. It had slipped out at the end of a phone call about scheduling, a reflexive sign-off ingrained from years of our life together. "Okay, talk Thursday. Love you."
A charged silence had crackled over the line. I could hear his sharp intake of breath. "Shit. Harper. I'm sorry. I didn't mean... That was just... habit."
My own heart was hammering against my ribs. It wasn't a habit. It was a truth that had escaped.
"No, that came out wrong," he'd stammered, his voice a mess of regret and sincerity. "I'm not sorry that I said it. Because it's true. I'm just sorry how I said it. For putting you on the spot. You know what I mean."
I did know. I knew he was walking a tightrope, trying to respect the space I needed while his heart kept forgetting the rules. And in those fumbled apologies and accidental slips of the tongue, I saw it clearly. The love was still there. Bruised and cautious, but undeniably there.
The following week, I logged into my therapy session from the kitchen table while Emma was down for her nap. The little square on my laptop screen showing Anya’s calm, familiar face had become a surprising anchor in my life.
"You seem conflicted today, Harper," she said, her voice clear through the computer's speakers.
I let out a shaky breath, running a hand through my hair. "Is it possible to feel guilty and excited and terrified all at the same time?"
"It's not only possible," she said with a small smile, "it's the very definition of being human. Tell me what's going on."
And so I did. The words tumbled out in a rush - the dinner party, my friends' gentle but persistent pressure to "get back out there," and the surprising, low-stakes offer from Doug.
"He was so respectful about it," I explained, twisting a napkin in my hands. "He knows I'm separated, knows it's complicated. He was very clear this isn't a date-date. He framed it as just one dinner, no pressure, just two adults having a conversation. Friends." I looked up at the screen, my central anxiety finally spilling out. "But I'm still married, Anya. Legally, yes, we're separated, but in my heart... I don't know what I am. Would it be wrong to go? It feels like a betrayal, but at the same time, I'm so lonely for a conversation that isn't about diapers or what Jack and I are going to do next."
Anya listened without interruption. When I was finished, she didn't offer an immediate answer. Instead, she asked a question. "Let's set aside the labels for a moment - 'date,' 'friends,''married,' 'separated.' What is it about his invitation that is calling to you?"
I thought about it. "The idea of just being... me. Not Emma's mom. Not Jack's wife. Just Harper. The woman who likes art and reads books and has opinions about things. I haven't been her in a very long time."
"And what are you afraid would happen if you let that woman out for one evening?"
"I'm afraid it would mean I'm giving up on my marriage," I whispered. "That if I enjoy myself, it means I don't love Jack anymore."
"Does it?" Anya countered gently. "Or could it mean that you're taking a step toward rediscovering yourself? For the past year, your identity has been defined by your roles in relation to other people. What if this dinner isn't about Doug at all? What if it's an opportunity for you to meet yourself again?"
Her words reframed the entire situation. It wasn't about choosing between Jack and Doug. It was about choosing myself. The dinner wasn't an act of infidelity; it was an act of self-discovery.
"You've spent this last year building a safe wall around yourself," she continued. "You needed that. But now you're peeking over the top and seeing that there's still a world out there. It's natural to be scared, but it's also healthy to be curious. You're allowed to explore who Harper is now, after everything she's been through."
