Sean put his fork down halfway through dinner, and I should have known right then that something was wrong.
My husband never put his fork down. Not for phone calls, not for the news, not even the night I told him I was pregnant with our daughter. He just kept eating and grinned at me with his mouth full. That was Sean. Nothing stopped him from finishing a plate of food.
But that Monday night in October, he set the fork beside his pot roast, lined it up neatly with the edge of the plate, and folded his hands.
“Jo,” he said. “Can I tell you something without you getting upset?”
I was reaching for the salt. “That depends on what it is.”
“I’ve been thinking about us.”
I sprinkled salt on my potatoes. “Okay.”
“Our marriage needs something new,” he said. “Something exciting.”
I laughed. I honestly thought he was setting up a joke.
“What, skydiving?”
He didn’t smile.
That was the second thing I should have noticed. Sean loved his own jokes more than anyone else did. If this had been a joke, he would already have been laughing.
“I’m serious,” he said. “Eighteen years, Jo. We do the same things every week. Tacos on Tuesday. Your sister’s on Sunday. We watch the same shows. We go to bed at the same time. I love you, but sometimes I feel like we’re roommates who happen to share a mortgage.”
That stung a little, but I nodded. I had felt it too. Most married people have, if they’re honest.
“So what do you want to do?” I asked. “Take a trip? We could finally go to Maine. You’ve been talking about Maine for ten years.”
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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