Page 73 of Shame

“Why are you asking? Doyouwant kids?”

“I didn’t before. Now…”

“Then it’s the trauma speaking.”

“I’m not saying I do right now.” He shrugs. “And if you still don’t, then it’s a moot point. I want you.”

But if I wanted a baby… Conversations like this can’t be had in half-measure, with things left unsaid. Except I don’t want him to say the rest of it. Not now. “If you still feel the same way in six months, bring it up again.”

The corner of his mouth quirks, a tiny almost smile. “I will.”

But I think about the conversation for days afterward.

It’s one thing for me to decide to stay with him and renew our relationship despite the transgression. It would be another thing entirely to start a family with him. Can I be sure of his fidelity forever?

I’m shocked to realize that yes, I think I could be.

Only time will tell if that remains true.

And then there’s the outstanding question of whether I gave moving on enough of an attempt.

Would I be happier if I left? Hypothetically, yes. I can see that path.

He betrayed me. But he’s also dug deep and created a safe space for me to be real. Warts and all. Would I find that with someone else?

Maybe.

Another hypothetical.

I don’t know which path holds more happiness.That’sthe truth. But I do know that this path is currently beautiful, full of happiness every day. That’s messy and complicated, but it feels much more tangible than the hypothetical.

He’s built me a path to happiness. The first few paving stones were fucking jagged. I never want to go back over them. But going forward? I believe him when he says it’s going to just get better. That when I’m sixty, I’ll look back and see two horrible, fucked-up years followed by twenty-five years of raw, unadulterated love.

Will it be worth the pain?

Only time will tell.

And I’m not ready to bring a baby into this family. Not yet.

* * *

It’sfunny how thoughts twirl through our minds, morphing. It’s not like there was a direct line to whether or not I want babies—mid August, and the jury is still out on that—to me revisiting all the in-hindsight ways I was secretly kinky in my teens and twenties.

But looking back, I can remember individual purchases so clearly. And somewhere in storage, I remember with a start, I have aDaddy’s Girlt-shirt I bought at a music festival a decade ago.

When I’m down there, I find it readily, but then I start picking through Luke’s stuff, looking for any evidence of his relationship with Caitlyn.

I don’t find any, and I’m left with a sick, angry feeling in the pit of my stomach. Lizard brain reaction, my own counsellor would say. I’m two months into therapy, and I thought I was getting past those worries.

I can’t keep digging, can’t keep picking at this scab. Not if I want to stay with him. Not if I want to be happy.

I grab the t-shirt and run all the way up eight flights of stairs, bursting into our loft with a gasp.

He looks at me, setting down the book he’d been reading. Instantly, I know I have his full attention. “What do you need?”

Big, intense feelings well up inside me. I could cry right now. I could puke. I’m definitely shaking, because how long have I wanted this, how long have I wanted his gaze on me, his undivided attention and concern?

And now I have it, at considerable cost.

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