We were sitting in my room, he on the edge of the bed, me in the computer chair. It’s not the biggest room to begin with, and it’s a shared office/bed space. So we were knee-to-knee and he had to have known what was coming. It wasn’t the first time he’d lied to me, nor was it the largest. But it was the last time he would.
I asked him a question that I already knew the answer to, and his lip started to quiver. He knew I knew, and he thought I’d forgive him and try again, as I had just a few short months earlier. After all, our wedding was only weeks away. He pleaded desperately that he had been bringing me and the children money. From his mother. I swallowed my rage and coolly asked him to leave. It wasn’t about the money. It had never been about the money, or the home, or the job.
After he drove away finally, avowing his love, devotion, and desire to get it all back together and win me back, I returned to sit on the bed and stare into space. I felt numb. I’d told him at the end of the conversation I didn’t have anything else to say. I did, but he wasn’t worth losing my temper over. It was my own fault for not looking harder, for not seeing through his web of lies earlier. I wanted the happy times to be the truth, not the lies and laziness that he hid so well.