No More Waiting on a Husband Who Never Chose Me

1: 1

Damian Weiss had a severe germophobia.

The first time my mother visited our home, he stood in the doorway and sprayed disinfectant three times.

She asked, carefully, whether she might use the bathroom.

Instead he pulled me aside.

Old people have bad hygiene habits. Don't push me to put up with it.

That day I walked two kilometers with my mother before we found a public restroom.

The whole way back, she kept saying it was fine.

But I saw her wipe her eyes when she thought I wasn't looking.

After that, she wouldn't even step into our complex.

Until today, when I came home from a two-week business trip.

In the bedroom, Damian was using the spoon that Winona's mother had drunk from to test the temperature of her porridge.

The man who disinfected the water cup after my mother so much as touched it now looked perfectly at ease, without so much as a frown.

His first love, Winona Henson, leaned against the doorframe, smiling.

"Auntie's been staying half a month now. He cooks for her himself every day, so worried no one else would care for her carefully enough."

I asked Damian what had happened to his germophobia.

He gave me a flat glance.

"Her mother is sick. Do you really have to fight for attention right now?"

So it turned out his germophobia could pick and choose who it applied to.

...

I didn't ask again. I turned and went to the study.

Damian followed me in, lifted my scarf from the back of the chair, and reached around to drape it over me.

"It's colder out. A draft always gives you a headache."

Seven years of marriage, and every time he hurt me badly enough that I wanted to leave, he'd offer a small kindness at the last moment.

Then, the instant I wavered, he'd calmly drive the knife in again.

He tucked a shopping list into my bag.

"While you're out, pick up some sugar-free oatmeal, and grab two sets of dishes. Auntie just got out of the hospital, and mixing the household things around isn't sanitary. Winona sat up all night watching her, her hands are shaking. Make the trip for her."

I took the list back out and set it down on the desk.

"She has hands. She has legs too."

Winona stood in the doorway, her eyes reddening at once.

"I'll go myself. Damian, please don't fight because of us."

Damian's face cooled, and his hand fell from my shoulder.

"I just asked you to do me a favor. When your mother came last time, didn't I book her a hotel? Millicent Swanson, don't turn yourself this bitter just because I'm taking care of someone."

"That day she only wanted to borrow the bathroom once."

"That day I was running a fever and couldn't stand the smell of the medicated oil on old people. How long ago was that? You still have to dig it up?"

I didn't want to argue anymore. I opened the drawer and took out the folder with my documents.

Winona's mother called out from the bedroom, and Damian turned at once.

At the door, he looked back and reminded me:

"Come home early tonight. I'll make the fish you like. Don't eat junk out there."

I carried my bag downstairs.

The security guard chased out of the gatehouse and handed me a cloth bag, washed pale from use.

"Ms. Swanson, your mother was just here. She stood at the gate almost an hour. Said she didn't dare call you, afraid your husband would be upset."

Inside was a thermos, two pairs of handmade insoles, and a small jar of pickled radish.

There was a note from my mother stuck to the lid.

Wiped the outside down with alcohol. Don't take the radish upstairs, the smell will bother Damian.

I called her. The wind was loud on her end, mixed with the sound of a bus pulling into a stop.

"Why didn't you come up just now?"

"Isn't there a sick person at your place? I came by bus, I'm covered in dust. Eat the buns while they're warm. Don't let Damian know I was there, so you two don't fight again."

"How long did you wait?"

"Not long. Just soaked up some sun."

She said it lightly. There was no sun at all today.

My phone buzzed.

A message from Damian.

Your headache pills are in the side pocket. Remember to take them.

I stared at those two lines for a long time.

I didn't go back to the marital home. I took a cab to the old complex where my mother lived.

When she saw me come in with my luggage, she looked past me first.

"Damian didn't come?"

"He's busy."

I took the short-term lease I'd just signed out of my bag and pressed the key into her palm.

"I rented a place nearby. Starting tomorrow, we live together."

My mother hurriedly pushed the key back at me.

"Did you two have a fight? I just won't go to your place, that's all. Don't make trouble for my sake."

"It has nothing to do with you."

"How can it have nothing to do with me? You were doing fine before."

I crouched down and changed her worn-through slippers.

"Mom, it wasn't fine before. You were all just putting up with things for my sake."

She looked at me, her lips moving a few times, her eyes slowly going red.

She didn't try to talk me out of it again. She just turned and went into the bedroom, and came back out holding an old quilt, sun-softened and fluffy.

"Sleep here for now. I'll make you porridge tomorrow."

There was no scented diffuser in the apartment, no disinfectant, and the kitchen still carried the smell of pickled radish.

I lay on the bed she'd made up, and for the first time I didn't worry about whether the smell on me would make anyone frown.

2: 2

The next day I went back to the marital home to get the things my mother needed for her surgery.

The guest room door stood open.

Annette Henson was propped against the adjustable back cushion I'd bought, watching TV, the non-slip slippers I'd set out for my mother on her feet.

The bed rail, the blackout curtain, the sorted pill organizer every last thing, all of it what I'd arranged ahead of time for my mother's cataract surgery.

A month ago Damian had stood in the doorway with a frown and said he couldn't stand the smell of the medicated oils old people always used, that I should hold off on bringing her over.

I thought he only needed time to adjust.

Now I understood. It was never old people he couldn't stand.

Winona came out of the bathroom holding the pill box labeled "Mom morning meds."

"Millicent, let my mom borrow these for a few days. Damian said your mother's surgery can be pushed back. Cataracts aren't exactly an emergency."

I took the pill box back out of her hand.

"Who pushed it back for her?"

Damian came in carrying warm water, settled Annette upright first, then turned to look at me.

"I called the hospital. Two weeks won't hurt your mom. Aunt Annette's been dizzy lately, she can't be left alone at night, so the guest room's hers for now."

"What gives you the right to decide for my mother?"

"You were in a meeting. I couldn't get through."

He lifted a hand and touched my eyelid, his voice going soft.

"Your eyes are so red. Didn't sleep well last night? The eye drops are in your bag. You can't even look after yourself. How are you going to look after a patient at the same time?"

I moved away from his hand.

"She has a daughter."

"Winona doesn't know the first thing about any of it. If something really happens to her mom, it'll come back to me in the end anyway."

Winona bowed her head, tears clinging to her lashes.

"It's my fault, I'm useless. Millicent, don't blame Damian, I'll take my mom and go."

"Where would you even take her?"

Damian's tone turned hard all at once, then he swung back around to coax me.

"Don't you start too. You talk tough, but you're not that heartless. Once Aunt Annette's a little better, I'll go get your mom myself. That works, doesn't it?"

I opened the closet and packed my mother's nightclothes, towels, and pill box into a case. Annette leaned against the headboard and said a stiff little sorry.

Damian frowned at once.

"Aunt Annette, you don't need to apologize. This is my home. If I say you can stay, no one gets to send you off."

My hands stopped for a second on the case lid.

So he knew exactly how to make an old woman feel she had a right to be there.

He'd just never once given that to my mother.

My phone buzzed twice in my pocket.

A message from my mother.

Millicent, I'm going to hold off on the surgery. The doctor said a little later is fine, don't fight with Damian over me. I can still see for now, it doesn't get in the way of cooking.

Half a minute later she added another line.

I've already smoothed it over with the hospital. Focus on work, there's no need to come back.

I stared at those last few words, and my fingers slowly went cold.

The doctor had clearly warned her that if she kept putting it off, her vision would only keep getting worse.

And still she said there was no rush.

No rush to use the bathroom, no rush about her aching leg, no rush that she could barely see.

Because she knew I had no standing in this house to say no on her behalf.

"Leave it."

Damian pressed a hand down on the case lid.

"When a married couple's living their life, whatever needs saying gets said behind closed doors. Lately every little disagreement and you're packing your things. Who's that for?"

I looked up at him.

"My mother canceled the surgery."

His hand went still.

"Canceled means it can be rebooked. Don't look at me like that, like I'm the one who forced her not to do it."

"You didn't force her. I did I was always the one making her step aside for my marriage."

"Good, as long as you understand. Once you're married, you can't put your own family first in everything."

I opened the hospital's booking page.

"So there won't be any more stepping aside."

Right there in front of him, I rebooked the surgery, then reserved a care apartment near the hospital for two weeks.

When the payment alert sounded and he saw the amount, his face darkened.

"We have a home. What are you throwing that money away for?"

"There's no room here that's hers."

"Aunt Annette's only staying a few days."

"My mother's things have been sitting here a month. She hasn't spent a single day in it."

I dragged the case toward the door, and behind me he called out:

"Millicent Swanson, don't turn one thing said in anger into something real. Come home tonight and I'll switch the guest room back."

Before the elevator doors closed, I revoked his access to the shared family medical account and deleted him as my emergency contact.

The screen popped up: "Action successful."

When we married, he'd held my hand and said that from then on, my business was his business.

Now I'd taken the deciding back.

3: 3

On the day of Georgina Weiss's eightieth birthday, my mother went after all.

She'd heard I was moving out and hadn't slept all night, then came the next day holding the longevity handkerchief she'd embroidered herself, ready to talk me out of it.

"Let's get the birthday dinner over with first. The old lady is fond of you. You can't upset her because of me."

I meant to leave the gift at the door and go, but Damian stopped me in the hotel lobby.

He pushed a cup of warm water into my hand and pulled my shawl tighter around me.

"Bad stomach and still nothing in it? I had the kitchen set aside shrimp and egg custard for you. Don't fight me today. Once the dinner's over, we'll go home and talk this through."

Before I could pull my hand back, Winona came running out of the banquet hall.

"Damian, my mom can't find a seat. The server says the head table's full."

Damian barely hesitated. He let go of me and went in.

The head table had kept a seat for my mother, the place card reading "the bride's mother."

By the time we walked in, that card had been shoved under an empty plate.

Annette sat beside Georgina, smiling as she put food on her plate.

The server led my mother to a small table by the service door and explained in a low voice,

"Mr. Weiss said you smell of medicated ointment. There are a lot of elderly people at the head table, and he was worried someone might be uncomfortable."

My mother instinctively hid the cloth bag behind her.

There was no ointment inside, only the longevity handkerchief she'd stayed up several nights to embroider.

I walked over to Damian.

"Switch the seats back."

He was adjusting the height of Annette's chair. At my words, he only glanced at me.

"What does it matter where she sits? Your mom doesn't know anyone. She wouldn't have anything to say at the head table anyway. It's Grandma's birthday today. Don't make everyone laugh over a chair."

"Then why does Aunt Annette have to sit there?"

"She knows Grandma."

As if afraid I'd really lose my temper, he took a chestnut pastry off the plate and held it to my lips.

"Your favorite. I had the kitchen save it just for you. Have a bite. Stop looking so grim."

I didn't open my mouth.

Winona sneezed beside him.

Damian immediately took the coat he'd just draped over me and put it on her shoulders instead.

"I told you to wear more. Why don't you ever listen?"

Winona pulled the coat, still warm from me, around herself and asked softly, "Millicent won't mind, will she?"

Damian looked back at me, an easy, familiar smile at his lips.

"She's not that petty."

My mother handed the handkerchief to the server, said she felt a little dizzy, and wanted to go home first.

When I caught up with her at the hotel's back entrance, she was standing in the cold wind, waiting for the bus.

Her graying hair had blown loose, and her hand still pressed tightly against the emptied cloth bag.

"Mom, let me take you home."

She shook her head.

"Go back inside. Don't make things hard for Damian."

"Whether things are hard for him has nothing to do with me anymore."

My mother froze.

Footsteps came from behind. Damian had followed us out, and he pushed a hand warmer into my arms.

"I know you're upset. When we go home tonight, you can yell at me all you want, all right? Grandma's about to cut the cake. Go back in first and smooth things over."

I put the hand warmer back into his arms.

"My mother is not your 'smoothing things over.'"

"Then what do you want? To throw Winona's mom out in front of everyone?"

His patience ran out fast.

"Millicent Swanson, you were never this unreasonable before."

"You don't have to throw her out."

I steadied my mother and walked her down the steps, one at a time.

"I'm the one who's leaving."

Back at my mother's place, I took the key to the marital home's safe out of my bag.

My mother saw it, and her face changed.

"Millicent, don't do anything rash."

"I'm not being rash."

Early the next morning, I went back and took the marriage certificate.

Damian sent more than a dozen messages. The last one was still an order.

Grandma was so upset by you she didn't eat any cake. Come back and apologize, and we'll put this behind us.

I turned off my phone.

4: 4

By the time we got back to the complex from the hotel, the rain had picked up.

Mom had barely reached the entrance when a cramp doubled her over.

She'd taken the painkiller on an empty stomach, and cold sweat was already soaking the hair at her temples.

I helped her inside, and when she saw the elevator numbers climbing, she grabbed my arm at once.

"Don't take me up to your place. Just find a bathroom down here."

"The stores outside are all closed."

"Then I'll hold it."

Hold it. Again.

I didn't listen to her. I pressed the floor button.

When the doors opened, Damian was in the entryway, changing his shoes.

He saw the rain soaking through Mom's pant legs, and his first move was to reach for the disinfectant spray.

I caught his hand.

"She's got stomach pain. She needs to borrow the bathroom."

Mom braced herself against the wall, her voice thin and shaking.

"I'll leave right away. I'll wipe the floor clean."

Damian glanced toward the living room.

Annette was slumped on the sofa on oxygen, and Winona still had my coat draped over her shoulders.

He lowered his voice.

"Aunt Annette's immune system is very weak. You two just came in from outside, your clothes are soaked with rain. There's a bathroom in the clubhouse downstairs. I'll have the driver take you over."

"She can't walk anymore."

"Then go to the hospital."

"The bathroom is right behind you."

His brow drew tighter, notch by notch.

"Millicent, do you have to pick this exact moment to fight me? It's not that I won't let your mom use it. There's a sick person in this house. If she tracks in bacteria, who's going to answer for it?"

Mom pressed a hand to her stomach and gave me a small tug.

"Never mind. I can walk."

She'd just turned around when Annette suddenly heaved.

Damian practically lunged, dropping to his knees on the floor to hold her by the shoulders. She didn't get to the trash can in time and threw up all over his hands, medicine residue spattering the front of his shirt.

He didn't so much as frown. He only soothed her, low and gentle: "It's okay, take your time, don't choke."

On the entryway tile, all Mom had left were a few faint wet footprints, and he found those filthy.

Annette vomited on him, and all he cared about was how bad she felt.

Mom's hand slowly slid off my arm.

She didn't say anything. Head down, she started toward the elevator.

I was about to follow when Damian handed Annette off to Winona, rinsed his hands quickly, and hurried out after me.

"Wait."

He reached up to wipe the rain from my temple, his tone settling back into that familiar softness.

"I spoke too harshly just now. Don't make that face. Your stomach isn't good either. I'll have the driver take you both to the hospital in a bit. Come back tonight and I'll make you noodles."

The moment the pad of his finger touched my face, my stomach turned.

I jerked back, pulled that bottle of disinfectant spray from his suit pocket, and gave the skin he'd touched three pumps.

Damian's hand froze in midair, the color draining from his face.

"What is this supposed to mean?"

I pushed the spray back into his palm.

"I used to be afraid you'd find me dirty, and afraid you'd find my mother dirty. Every time I brought her here, I'd be apologizing for her before I even got in the door."

The elevator doors slid open.

I steadied Mom, took the key and my ring out of my bag, and set them together on the doormat by the door, the one printed with "Welcome Home."

Damian stared at those two things and laughed.

"Don't put on such a ruthless act. If you really meant it, you wouldn't have come back last night for the marriage certificate."

"I came back for it so I could leave."

His throat moved, and his voice went suddenly tight.

"You walk out that door, don't call me at midnight with your stomach hurting. I won't come get you every time."

In the past, all he had to do was say he wouldn't take care of me and I'd turn back.

This time, I pressed the close button.

Through the last inch of the closing gap, Damian was still holding out his hand.

He looked down at the disinfectant in his palm, and the bottle slipped between his fingers.

That hand, the one that never let anything escape its control, was shaking for the first time, too unsteady to hold on.