Chapter Twenty-One: Fawn

                                        

                                              

I tried not to think about what that plaque and necklace really meant. I didn't want to go there. Every time my mind brushed against it, I flinched like it was an open wound. It was easier to tell myself it was just a kind gesture, just something nice. Easier to sit with the surface meaning than dig into what was lurking underneath.  I was caught between conflicting emotions—grateful, angry, upset, hopeful—but mostly just  confused. 
Did he ever love me? The question hit first, sharp and cruel. And if the answer was yes—if he really did—then how could he do this to me? How do you betray someone you love and still call it love with a straight face? And if the answer was no... if he didn't... then what was all of this?  Did I build a life on something I imagined was there, something I wanted to be real so badly I never looked too closely? or  did I misunderstand his love completely? Did I expect it to look like mine, to sound like mine, to move the way I love? 
And I kept thinking, looping the same thought over and over like I was chewing glass: If he had given me the gift that night—or even a few nights later—I would've forgiven him immediately.  I would've told myself that mistakes happen and relationships are complicated, and I would've smoothed everything over, even the thing with Laura, or at least not stirred the pot any further.
So the following day, I went to my therapist.  She didn't say much at first, just looked at me like she was waiting for me to start untangling the knot myself.
"I don't even know why I'm this upset," I finally said, my voice small and shaky. "It's like—I love the necklace. I do. It's thoughtful and beautiful and meaningful and... romantic, even. Everything I always wanted from him, in theory But I shouldn't love it this much."
"So why shouldn't you love it?" they asked gently.
I swallowed, frustration building like a lump in my throat. "Because how am I supposed to hold this version of him—the thoughtful, sweet one—next to the version of him who forgot me? Who forgot us? How do I reconcile both without feeling like I'm betraying myself? I keep thinking I should be furious at him, and part of me is—but honestly? I'm angrier at myself."
"Why at yourself?" she asked, soft but steady.
"Because I know myself," I admitted. "I know I would've accepted that necklace that night and forgot about the missing birthday, missing dinners, and her. And I hate that about me."
She nodded like she'd seen this before,"Why do you think you didn't tell him whenever you felt hurt by him during your marriage?" she asked, her tone careful, like the question itself might splinter if I pressed too hard on it.
I stared at a little crack in the wall by her bookshelf. It branched like a dried riverbed, or maybe a vein. I hated how exposed I felt in that room, hated how the silence waited for me to confess things I wasn't even sure I understood yet.
"I don't know," I finally said. "Maybe... maybe I was scared. Like if I said something, I'd be the bad guy."
She nodded, thoughtful. "Why do you need to be the good guy?"
I gave a hollow laugh. "It's easier to be loved when you behave."
Her gaze was steady. "Do you not believe you're already loved?"
I shrugged, but the motion felt hollow. "I am, by many people, mainly my parents...  They are amazing."
"But?" she prompted gently, tilting her head like she already saw the shape of what I was circling.
"but at the risk of sounding arrogant, I was easy to love, I was a good kid," I said. "Quiet. Polite. I didn't cause trouble. Got good grades. Did what I was told."