“Go to her,” I said. “Today.”
He thought it was anger and that I’d be over it in an hour. But I was completely calm, calmer than I’d been all week. He packed his gym bag and left before nine.
He returned four days later. He stood in the hallway with the same bag, his face ashen.
“Lucyna said she’d lost her mind. That she didn’t want a second husband, she’d already buried one. That it was supposed to be… different.”
It was supposed to be tea on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Not washing his socks, not his snoring, not his diabetes medication laid out in a box for the week. I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
I couldn’t throw him out – we share the apartment, bought together from a housing cooperative. So he moved into Agnieszka’s room. A week later, I filed for divorce in the district court. Agnieszka cried on the phone, then came over, sat with my father, sat with me, and said she understood. I don’t know if she does. I don’t understand everything myself.
