Chapter 13 - The Marriage Was Not The Criminal Case
Margaret eventually accepted responsibility for the shove as part of a negotiated resolution.
I will not pretend the legal language gave me emotional satisfaction.
It didn't.
There were conditions.
No contact with me unless I initiated.
Counseling requirements.
Supervision around certain family situations for a period.
No dramatic prison sentence.
No courthouse applause.
She did not become harmless because paperwork existed.
She also did not disappear.
She remained Jason's mother.
That was his problem to solve.
Our marriage was mine.
Jason and I started couples counseling seven months after the fall.
Not immediately.
I needed to be able to sit across from him without every apology feeling like a bid to come home.
The therapist's first useful question was:
“What are you each hoping happens?”
Jason said:
“I want to come home.”
I said:
“I want to know whether I want him home.”
That hurt him.
He stayed.
We talked about Margaret.
Too much at first.
Then our therapist stopped us.
“What did the two of you do when Margaret was not in the room?”
That was worse.
Jason avoided conflict.
I got sharper when he avoided.
He promised future conversations.
I stopped believing future dates.
He hid his mother's demands.
I started making decisions before he could delay them.
Neither pattern put me down the stairs.
Still part of the marriage.
One evening after therapy, Jason came inside my house for the first time in weeks.
I had asked him to fix a cabinet hinge.
Then immediately regretted asking because apparently one household task could feel intimate after separation.
He fixed it.
No ceremony.
Then saw the basement door.
“Still hard?”
“Yes.”
I could go down now.
Slowly.
Not alone when carrying anything.
My physical therapist said confidence would return with repetition.
I hated that bodies needed practice for places minds understood were safe.
Jason stood near the door.
“I've been thinking about replacing the stairs.”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“Why?”
“They're not broken.”
“The rail could be better.”
“Maybe.”
“I can—”
“Jason.”
He stopped.
“Right.”
Old habit.
Find project.
Solve fear.
He sat at the kitchen table.
“I miss living here.”
I looked at him.
“I know.”
“I hate Marcus's couch.”
“You have a bed there.”
“Emotionally a couch.”
I almost smiled.
Then he became serious.
“If you never want me back, I need to know eventually.”
The word eventually helped.
Not tonight.
Not now.
“What will you do if I say no?”
He thought.
“Get an apartment.”
“And your mother?”
“She has her own apartment now.”
“Would you live with her?”
His expression made me laugh.
“No.”
“Good.”
Then I asked:
“Do you blame me?”
He knew exactly what I meant.
“For Mom?”
“Yes.”
He took time.
“Sometimes I feel it start.”
I appreciated that answer more than no.
“What do you do?”
“Don't call you.”
“Good.”
He almost smiled.
“Talk to my therapist.”
“Very modern.”
“Humiliating.”
I laughed.
Then:
“What does the blame say?”
His face tightened.
“That if you'd been more patient with her…”
I waited.
He finished.
“…maybe none of this happens.”
I nodded.
“Do you believe it?”
“No.”
“Ever?”
He looked at me.
“For about ten seconds when I’m angry.”
That hurt.
Still useful.
He continued.
“Then I remember she had already shoved you twice.”
“Yes.”
“And I remember I promised two women different things because I wanted both to stop being upset with me.”
“Yes.”
He stared at the table.
“I don't want you living with the ten seconds.”
Neither did I.
May you like
The question was whether I could trust the ninety-nine percent around them.
I still didn't know.
