He let all his frustrations out. Every one of them. How ungrateful I was. How difficult. How he'd been nothing but honest with me, and this was what he got. The words piled up in the dark room like debris after a storm, and I lay there and let them fall around me.
In the end, he said, "Look. You wanted a baby. And here I am, trying to support you. But you're rejecting it. Guess I should just sleep on the couch tonight, huh?"
He stood. The floorboards creaked under his weight. He grabbed his pillow with a sharp, theatrical motion, and then the door slammed hard enough to rattle the crucifix on the wall.
In the silence that followed, I couldn't help but laugh.
It came out broken. A fractured sound in the dark, muffled by the pillow, my body shaking with it. Laughing at how messed up my marriage was and how clueless I had been. How completely, devastatingly clueless.