Chapter 8 - THE MAN HE SHOULD HAVE BEEN
By winter, Emma was seven months old.
She had two teeth, an obsession with bananas, and the ability to crawl toward any electrical cord faster than seemed physically possible.
Sophie had turned three and decided princess dresses were appropriate for grocery shopping, pediatric appointments, and snowstorms.
Our home became loud again.
But it was a different kind of loud.
Not frantic.
Alive.
Mark took the girls every Tuesday evening and alternating weekends.
He arrived on time.
He learned Emma’s nap schedule.
He knew which stuffed rabbit Sophie needed at bedtime.
He attended therapy every Wednesday.
I knew because he occasionally mentioned it, never because I asked.
One Saturday, he returned the girls and lingered on the porch.
Sophie ran inside.
Emma was asleep in her car seat.
Mark looked at me.
“I owe you an apology I haven’t given correctly.”
My first instinct was exhaustion.
“Mark—”
“No explanation. Just an apology.”
I waited.
He looked down.
“When I left, I told myself I was having some kind of breakdown.”
His breath fogged in the cold.
“Maybe I was. But I’ve spent months using my feelings as reasons for what I did.”
I said nothing.
“I abandoned you when you were physically and emotionally depleted. I abandoned Sophie when she was sick. I betrayed our marriage. I lied about Natalie. I lied about money. I tried to use property that wasn’t mine because I was desperate to avoid admitting I had failed.”
His voice cracked.
“And when I came back, I expected you to be waiting because I thought being sorry was the same thing as deserving another chance.”
I swallowed.
He continued.
“It isn’t.”
“No.”
“I understand that now.”
For once, I believed he did.
“I am sorry, Rachel.”
“Thank you.”
He nodded.
Then he left.
I closed the door and cried for twenty minutes.
Healing is cruel sometimes.
You wait months for the apology you deserve.
Then it arrives after you no longer need it to survive.
The divorce mediation was scheduled for January.
Custody was not heavily contested.
Mark and I agreed on joint legal responsibility with a structured parenting schedule appropriate for Emma’s age.
Financial issues were more complicated, but mostly resolved.
Then one unexpected issue surfaced.
Mark did not want the divorce finalized.
Not because he disputed assets.
Because he still wanted another chance.
At mediation, he said it plainly.
“I’m asking for six months.”
The mediator looked at me.
“For what purpose?”
Mark answered.
“Not to move back in. Not to stop the financial agreements. I’m asking Rachel not to finalize the dissolution for six months.”
I stared at him.
“Why?”
“So I can prove I’m not changing to manipulate you.”
I looked at Jonathan.
His expression revealed nothing.
The mediator asked whether I wanted a private caucus.
“Yes.”
Mark and his attorney left.
I turned to Jonathan.
“What do you think?”
“That’s your decision.”
“I hate lawyers.”
“I’m aware.”
“Tell me what six months changes legally.”
He explained.
It could delay certainty.
It could create complications if either party’s finances changed.
Existing temporary agreements could remain.
There was no guarantee anything emotional would change.
“Would you do it?”
He looked at me.
“I cannot answer that for you.”
“Not as my lawyer.”
“That makes the question worse.”
I suddenly understood.
Jonathan and I had become close.
Carefully close.
Nothing improper had happened.
But something existed between us.
Something neither of us had named.
I looked away.
“You should probably stop being my attorney.”
His face became very still.
“Why?”
“You know why.”
Silence.
Finally he said, “Yes.”
The answer hurt and relieved me simultaneously.
Another attorney from his firm took over the remainder of the mediation.
Jonathan withdrew from direct representation.
Two weeks later, he called me.
Not about the case.
“Coffee?”
I stared at his name on my screen.
“Is this legal coffee?”
“No.”
“Then yes.”
We met at a small cafe beside the river.
Jonathan looked almost nervous.
I had never seen him nervous.
“This feels strange,” I said.
“Extremely.”
“So why are we here?”
“Because I couldn’t ask while I represented you.”
“Ask what?”
He smiled.
“If you’d have coffee.”
I looked down at my cup.
“We’re already having coffee.”
“You see my dilemma.”
I laughed.
Then became serious.
“My divorce isn’t final.”
“I know.”
“I’m not ready for a relationship.”
“I know.”
“I don’t even know what I’m going to feel next week.”
“I know.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“You’re very irritating.”
“I’ve been told.”
We talked for ninety minutes.
Nothing romantic happened.
No kiss.
No declarations.
At the end, he walked me to my car.
“I don’t want to become another pressure in your life.”
“You aren’t.”
“If you need space—”
I burst out laughing.
Jonathan froze.
Then realized what he had said.
“Oh.”
“Please never phrase it that way.”
He laughed too.
“Fair.”
I drove home smiling.
Then I found Mark sitting on my front steps.
My smile disappeared.
“What happened?”
He stood.
“Nothing. Your mom has the girls, right?”
“Yes.”
“I called first. You didn’t answer.”
“My phone was in my purse.”
He nodded.
Then his eyes moved toward the road where Jonathan’s car had disappeared.
“Were you with him?”
I went still.
“That’s not your business.”
Pain crossed his face.
“Right.”
He turned to leave.
“Mark.”
He stopped.
I hated seeing him hurt.
But pity was not marriage.
“I haven’t started a relationship with Jonathan.”
He looked back.
“Do you want to?”
I did not answer.
That was an answer.
Mark swallowed.
“I knew it.”
“You knew nothing.”
“I knew he was waiting.”
“No.”
My voice sharpened.
“He did nothing inappropriate. Neither did I.”
“But now?”
“Now is none of your business.”
He nodded slowly.
“You’re right.”
Then he said something I didn’t expect.
“Don’t let worrying about hurting me stop you from living.”
I stared at him.
“Therapy really is working.”
He laughed sadly.
“Apparently.”
He walked away.
That night I lay in bed thinking about two men.
One represented eleven years of history, two children, betrayal, growth, and a life that once felt permanent.
The other represented nothing guaranteed at all.
And finally, I understood I did not have to choose between them.
May you like
I could choose myself.
The next morning, I instructed my new attorney to move forward with finalizing the divorce.
