A big black SUV. Leather seats. A screen in the dashboard the size of a laptop. He said he needed it for work. He said he drove clients around sometimes, and he couldn’t show up in his old Honda with the dented door and the broken air conditioning.
The monthly payment on that car was almost as much as we spent on groceries.
I work as a librarian at Sophie’s elementary school. I love my job. But it doesn’t pay much. Adam made more than me. Not a lot more, but enough that most of the big bills were his.
And for months, the big bills had been eating us alive.
A promotion would change everything. Regional director. I didn’t even know exactly what that meant, but I knew it meant more money. A lot more.
But there was a simpler solution. One we hadn’t tried.
“Maybe we should sell the car first,” I said.
Adam let go of my hand.
He put both hands on the wheel. His jaw went tight.
For a long time, he didn’t say anything. The only sound was the cartoon leaking out of Sophie’s headphones in the back seat. Something about a talking pig.
“I already feel like I’m failing you, Hazel,” he said finally. His voice was very quiet. “Every single day. I lie awake at night thinking about it. Do you have to make me feel worse?”
I looked at him.
His eyes were wet.
“I’m not trying to make you feel worse,” I said. “I’m just saying…”
“I know what you’re saying. You’re saying I made a stupid decision. You’re saying it’s my fault.”
“Adam, that’s not what I…”
“It’s fine.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “You’re right. You’re always right. I’m just trying to fix it. That’s all I’m trying to do.”
And somehow, by the time we pulled into our driveway, I was the one apologizing. I was the one rubbing his shoulder and telling him he wasn’t failing anyone. That we’d figure it out. That I believed in him.
I didn’t even notice it happening.
That was how it always went. I just didn’t know it yet.
After that, Adam seemed to realize that talking about Graham wasn’t working on me.
So he stopped talking about Graham.
He started talking about us instead. About our future.
He’d come home and lie down next to me in bed and talk in the dark, the way we used to when we were first married.
“If I got the promotion,” he’d say, “no more weekend shifts. I’d be home every Saturday. Every single one.”
“That would be nice.”
“We could take Sophie on a real vacation. Not just your mom’s house. A real one. A beach somewhere.”
“She’d love that.”
“And we could finally get a new washing machine,” he said. “One that doesn’t need to be restarted halfway through every load.”
