The next morning, I woke with the date still in my head.
Three days.
I couldn't stop thinking about it.
Ashton moved around the bedroom while I lay facing the window, pretending to be half asleep.
He opened the wardrobe, took out a shirt, and closed the door.
Then he checked his phone.
I watched the blurred shape of him cross the room.
For two years, I had known him by sounds and habits.
Now I was learning to watch him without letting him know.
It was a strange way to live with someone I had once trusted completely.
"Are you awake?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Did you sleep any better?"
"A little."
He came closer to the bed.
I felt the mattress dip when he sat down.
"You've been worrying too much lately."
I kept my hands folded over the blanket.
"Maybe."
"You know you don't have to handle everything yourself."
I almost turned toward him.
The words sounded like the Ashton I remembered.
Then I thought about the papers beneath our bed.
"I know."
He touched my shoulder briefly before standing.
"I'm leaving early today."
"All right."
He collected his keys from the ceramic dish downstairs.
I heard the front door close.
Then the car started.
I waited until the engine faded before getting out of bed.
The suitcase was still beneath the frame.
I didn't pull it out.
I had already seen enough to know I needed to understand the document, but I couldn't keep struggling with the tiny print and hoping the words would suddenly become clear.
I needed a better way to read it.
I remembered the advice I had received at the eye specialist's office.
Stronger light.
Comfortable distance.
Frequent breaks.
The doctor had spoken about these things as ordinary parts of adapting to my changing vision.
I hadn't imagined how important they would become.
I took the suitcase out and placed it beside the window.
Then I removed the envelope and laid the pages on the bed.
I adjusted the curtains until the sunlight fell across the paper.
I used my phone to enlarge the first page.
Some of the print became clearer.
I could distinguish the headings and several lines, but the smaller words still blurred together.
I tried holding the phone farther away.
Then closer.
Nothing helped for long.
My eyes grew tired.
I stopped before I made them worse.
The document remained a mystery, and that frustrated me more than I wanted to admit.
I had spent two years wishing for the ability to read a page without assistance.
Now that I was beginning to see again, I had a page that might explain what was happening to my marriage, and I still couldn't read it properly.
I sat on the floor beside the bed.
For a few minutes, I let myself feel angry.
Not at the doctor.
Not at myself for recovering slowly.
At Ashton.
He had prepared something with my name on it.
He had placed a signature beneath it that I had never given.
And he had hidden it in a place he believed I would never search.
I put the pages back in their envelope.
I wasn't going to destroy my eyes trying to force the words into focus.
I would find another way to understand them.
That afternoon, Ashton called while I was in the kitchen.
I heard the phone vibrate against the counter.
His name appeared on the screen in letters I could recognize when I brought it close.
I answered.
"Hello?"
"Just checking on you."
"I'm fine."
"Have you eaten?"
"Not yet."
"You should make something."
"I will."
There was a pause.
Then he asked, "Have you been upstairs much today?"
My hand tightened around the phone.
The question sounded ordinary.
It could have meant nothing.
But I remembered the suitcase.
"Not really," I said.
"Good."
The word came quickly.
I waited.
He seemed to realize how it sounded.
"I mean, don't tire yourself out."
"I won't."
He ended the call a few seconds later.
I stood in the kitchen with the phone against my ear long after the line went silent.
Maybe I was becoming suspicious of everything.
Maybe the question had been innocent.
But when I thought about the way he had said good, I couldn't shake the feeling that he was checking something.
I didn't know what.
I only knew I needed to be careful.
That evening, I paid attention to him during dinner.
He spoke about work without giving many details.
He asked whether I had eaten lunch.
He reminded me to keep my phone charged.
He even offered to help me upstairs afterward.
These were small things.
Any one of them could have been ordinary kindness.
Together, they made me uneasy because I could no longer tell what he expected from me.
After dinner, I sat in the living room while he washed the dishes.
I heard water strike the plates.
A cupboard closed.
Then he came back and sat across from me.
"Sutton, I've been thinking."
I turned toward his voice.
"About what?"
"About us."
My heart began beating faster.
I waited for him to continue.
He rubbed his hands together.
"I know the last few months haven't been easy."
"No," I said quietly.
"I've been under pressure."
"I understand."
"I don't always handle it well."
I wanted to believe him.
I wanted him to say that he had been frightened, that he had been struggling, that he was sorry for making me feel like a burden.
Instead, he looked down at his hands.
"I just need things to be a little simpler right now."
I swallowed.
"What do you mean?"
"Less worrying. Less arguing."
"I don't want to argue with you."
"Then let's try not to."
He stood before I could ask anything else.
I remained on the sofa.
The conversation had sounded like an apology, but it hadn't answered a single question.
He had spoken about pressure without explaining what was causing it.
He had spoken about us without telling me what he wanted.
And he had asked me to make things simpler without saying what I was supposed to stop asking.
I thought about the document again.
The date was getting closer.
I couldn't prove that our conversation had anything to do with it.
Still, I felt as though he was preparing me to accept something before I knew what it was.
That night, I didn't sleep much.
I kept remembering the way he had said he needed things to be simpler.
I had spent two years trying to make life easier for him.
I had learned to do more on my own.
I had stopped asking for help when I thought he might be tired.
I had swallowed questions when his answers sounded impatient.
What more did he want me to make simple?
I had no answer.
But I finally understood that keeping quiet wouldn't make the truth disappear.
It would only leave Ashton free to decide what happened next.
Click here to continue reading: PART 6: The Date Was Getting Closer, and I Could No Longer Convince Myself That My Name on Those Papers Was an Innocent Mistake
I Had Learned to Recognize My Husband by His Footsteps, but I Was Beginning to See Things He Thought Were Hidden
Part 5 of 20
