Page 10 of Buttons

I yank away from him.

“Ellie,” he says, and for the first time, uncertainty creeps into his voice.

I wrap my arms around myself, creating a barrier between us. “Don’t touch me.”

His confidence visibly falters. “You’re overreacting.”

“No,” I cut him off. “I’m finally reacting. I’ve been living someone else’s life. Now, I’m trying to be worth choosing.”

Julian watches me with growing alarm. This isn’t how our arguments go; this isn’t how I respond. His accommodating, efficient wife is going off-script.

“What are you saying?” he asks, and there’s actual fear in his voice now.

Not wanting to make any rash decisions, I glance around our bedroom. Our decor, the king-sized bed, the wedding photo on the dresser—it all feels fake now. It all feels like an ignorant woman who thought the man she married loved every piece of her.

“I’m saying,” I meet his eyes directly, “that I need to find out whatIwould have chosen if I’d had all the information.”

His face hardens. “Don’t be dramatic; think of the children.”

“Yes,” I say quietly. “I am, and they deserve better than this.”

I turn away from him, toward the closet we share, my mind suddenly, terrifyingly clear. I pull the suitcase from the top shelf of our closet. It’s dusty, but it’ll do. This is the first time I’m notusing it for a family vacation. Julian watches from the bedroom doorway, his face cycling through emotions.

“We’ll go away,” he says with panic in every word. “The Maldives, Paris, wherever you want. I’ll take a sabbatical. We can fix this. Just don’t walk out on the life we’ve built.”

He still doesn’t get it.

I don’t look at him as I lay the suitcase open on the bed. My steady hands pull open drawers to fold each item with the carefulness Julian once valued in his secretary, then his wife.

“You’re upset, I understand,” he says, “but this dramatic overreaction isn’t like you.”

That makes me pause. He’s right. It isn’t like me. Not the me he married, anyway. That woman was accommodating. She tucked her opinions behind her ear along with her perfectly straightened hair.

I move to the bathroom, gathering toiletries. I take everything except the expensive moisturizer Julian bought me last Christmas because “Carmella recommended it.” I leave that one on the counter.

Julian follows me around for once.

“Ellie.” His voice softens, becoming coaxing. “Come on. Let’s talk about this in the morning. You’re tired. We’ve both had too much to drink.”

I zip the toiletry bag shut with a decisive motion. “I’m perfectly sober. I’m now seeing everything clearly for the first time.”

“Fine. I can’t stop you. Walk out the door, Ellie,” he says, speaking in a quiet, conversational tone. “But you aren’t taking the children.”

I stop reaching for the next drawer, holding a stack of sweaters in my hands. He thinks he has the advantage because he knows I want to keep the children with me. But he doesn’t realize how impractical his statement is.

I handle every doctor’s appointment, school pickup, breakfast, and bedtime routine. I am the one who manages their daily schedules. Julian does not have the phone numbers for their babysitters or their teachers. He cannot manage a morning routine without relying on his secretary. Funny enough, she just so happens to be me. He has no contacts outside of colleagues; even his parents live in a different country.

I turn around slowly and look directly at him. “You wouldn’t even know how to feed them breakfast, Julian.”

“I can order takeout.”

“At six in the morning? Who is going to watch them while you’re at work tomorrow?”

“Your mom?”

“Try again.”

Since I’m the one who maintains his schedule, I know he can’t handle the children. He won’t be able to get them up, feed them breakfast, get them to and from school. I’m not taking them with me to be cruel, but to protect both them and Julian. He’ll have a breakdown having to handle them alone. It’s unfortunate, but true.