“My background,” I repeated softly.
“Clarissa, I don’t mean to be harsh, but we need to be realistic. You haven’t worked in a professional environment in decades. You’ve never managed a staff, never dealt with hospital politics, never handled the kind of regulatory compliance issues that come with administering medical services.”
His voice was gentle now, the tone he used when he thought he was protecting me from harsh realities.
“It would be setting yourself up for failure.”
“Maybe,” I said, but something in me pushed back. “Or maybe I’m more capable than you think.”
Wesley set his coffee cup down with a sharp clink. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I’m not the same person I was at 23. I’ve spent 40 years managing our household, our finances, our social obligations. I’ve organized charity events, coordinated with contractors, handled complex scheduling. I’m not some helpless child, Wesley.”
The word surprised both of us. I hadn’t intended to sound so defensive, so assertive.
Wesley stared at me for a long moment. “Of course you’re capable. I never said you weren’t. But there’s a difference between managing a household and running a medical department. The liability alone would be enormous. One mistake could destroy both our reputations.”
Both our reputations.
Not my reputation, not my risk, but ours, as if my potential failure would somehow reflect on him.
“What if I didn’t fail?” I asked quietly. “Clarissa, what if I was good at it? What if I actually had something valuable to contribute?”
Wesley’s expression hardened. “Is this really what you want? To throw away 40 years of marriage to chase some fantasy job that probably doesn’t even exist?”
“I’m not throwing away anything. I’m just thinking.”
“About what? About him?”
Wesley leaned forward, his voice dropping to that controlled tone that always made me nervous.
“Because if this is about rekindling some college romance—”
“It’s not about Harrison,” I said, though I wasn’t entirely sure that was true. “It’s about me, about who I am, who I might have been.”
“You are my wife. You are the woman I’ve loved and provided for for 40 years. Isn’t that enough?”
The question hung between us like a challenge.
Was it enough?
Had it ever been enough?
“I need some air,” I said, standing abruptly. “I think I’ll work in the garden for a while.”
Wesley nodded, but his expression remained troubled. “Just promise me you’ll think carefully before you do anything rash. We have a good life, Clarissa. Don’t let one evening of nostalgia destroy what we’ve built.”
I walked outside into my carefully tended garden, breathing in the scent of jasmine and morning dew. This had always been my sanctuary, the one place in our house that was entirely mine. Wesley never showed any interest in gardening, so he had given me free rein to design and maintain it however I wanted.
Sitting on the stone bench I had positioned beneath the old oak tree, I pulled Harrison’s business card from my pocket and studied it again. The paper was expensive, simple, elegant, professional, but not ostentatious.
I found myself wondering what his life had been like for the past 40 years. Wesley made it sound like Harrison had lived some kind of sterile, lonely existence, too focused on work to build meaningful relationships. But what if that wasn’t true? What if Harrison had simply chosen a different path, one that allowed him to pursue his passions without compromise?
