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The Mother Road

By Jennifer AlLee

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I cannot get divorced.

“I want a divorce.”

Tony repeats himself, speaking slower. Does he think I didn’t hear him the first time? That somehow I missed his startling proclamation? Oh no, I heard every one of those ugly words. I just can’t believe they came out of my husband. Not him. Not the man I’ve been so blissfully, ignorantly joined to for the last eighteen years.

“Natalie. Say something.”

I try to swallow, try to push down the shock that clogs my windpipe. This day started out so normal. How did it go so wrong?

When Tony arrived home from work, late as usual, I didn’t complain. In fact, I had everything ready for a beautiful evening. Dinner warming in the oven, a special bottle of wine breathing on the table, and me, ready to celebrate. But when I greeted him at the door, my welcoming arms wrapped around a statue of a man, his arms hanging straight down at this side, his torso cold and hard.

He’s anything but statuesque now. Pacing like an agitated animal, he rakes his hands through his hair as he looks back at me. “Come on, Natalie. Don’t give me the silent treatment.”

Is that what he thinks I’m doing? Punishing him with my silence? What I wouldn’t give for more silence. How I wish I could turn back time and press my hand against his mouth, forcing his lips closed so the words couldn’t spill out.
But there’s no going back. No undoing the news that all these nights I thought he was working late, he was actually getting cozy with his administrative assistant.

I stare back at him. What does he want me to say? What is there to say?
“When did it start?”

He stops pacing and sighs. I bet now he wishes he hadn’t encouraged me to speak. “In Omaha.”

Omaha? “I thought you went there alone.”

“I was going to. Bringing Erin along was a last minute decision. I needed a hand.”

I’ll bet you did. Facts bounce around my brain, banging into each other as I try to grasp what my husband is telling me. That trip was only three months ago. How can he already be certain that our marriage is over?

“We can get through this. We can go to counseling.” The words squeeze out of me so thin and garbled it sounds like I’m talking through the speaker at a fast food drive through. Humiliation burns my cheeks, the back of my neck. Basically, I’ve chosen to ignore the fact that he’s been unfaithful and am begging him not to leave me. If I have to swallow my pride to work things out, I will.

Because I cannot get divorced.

Tony closes his eyes, jerks his head hard to the left. “It’s too late for that.”
“It’s never too late.” I grab his arm, my fingers digging into his shirt sleeve, twisting into the cotton. Now that I’m touching him, I’m desperate. Desperate to keep contact. If I can just hold on, I can fix this. “We can work it out. Remember our vows? We’re a threefold cord, you, me, and God. Together we—”

As soon as I say “God” his eyes cloud over and he yanks his arm away from me. “No. I can’t do this anymore.”

“But Tony, I—”

“She’s pregnant.”

Pregnant. That one word sweeps away anything else I might have said. Pregnant. And after only three months. I put my palm flat against my own stomach and sink onto the couch. Well, now we know.

There’s no fight left in me. I can’t look at his face, but I see his feet step closer.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for it to happen this way.”

This way? In other words, he did mean for it to happen, just in a nicer, more humane way. Finally, my mind clears and I know exactly what I want to say.
“You need to leave now.”

He doesn’t answer at first. But then his shoes back away and he says, “I’ll have my lawyer contact you.”

The absurdity hits me, jerking my head up, pulling me off the couch so I’m standing upright, hands balled into fists at my side. “You already have your own lawyer?”

His face is a mixture of sadness and pity. Poor Natalie, it seems to say, how could you not see this coming?

He scoops his car keys off the hall table and walks out the front door. He pulls it closed behind him so gently I barely hear the click of the latch.
So this is how it ends? Eighteen years of love, work, planning . . . over after a fifteen-minute confession.

The ding of the oven timer calls me to the kitchen. On my way there, I pass the dinner table, set so beautifully with our good china, a centerpiece of fresh flowers in the middle of a midnight blue tablecloth. And there, between Tony’s seat at the head of the table and my seat to his right, is the reason I was so ready to celebrate. The contract for the next three books in the Happily Married series.

I cannot get divorced.

I’m a romance novelist. And not just any romance novelist. One of the top-selling Christian romance novelists in the country. I also write non-fiction books about—get this—marriage. I’ve put my life under a microscope and written about it, bared my soul, and now I’m considered an expert in the field. I make a living from couples who live happily ever after, or are at least trying to.
A cold numbness spreads through my body as I walk into the kitchen. I turn off the timer. Turn off the oven. Pick up the oven mitts from the counter. Open the oven door. Pull out the roast.

It looks perfect, but I pinch my lips together as the aroma sets my stomach to rolling. I don’t even like roast. I only made this stupid thing because it’s Tony’s favorite.

So much boils up inside me—anger, grief, nausea—that I explode. I hurl the hunk of meat, roasting pan and all, against the wall and release a scream that comes from somewhere beyond my toes. Dropping to my knees on the floor, I weep as meat drippings and carrots and onions slide in slow motion down the wall and ooze across the floor.

My whole adult life has been about happily ever after. And now, it’s over.

I’m getting a divorce.

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