I walk in the door of our apartment, our home that we began building five years ago. She is sitting on the couch, arms crossed over her chest staring down at her phone. The pictures that hold memories of our wedding, our trips, our life together are gone. The gravity of this creates a weight in my chest that causes the air in the room to struggle to fill my lungs.
I don’t understand. I knew she was angry, knew she was upset, but I had no idea she was at this point. I had no idea that she was almost gone.
“I can’t do this anymore.” Her voice feels cold, but its slight shakiness tells me she has done her crying already. That the cool tone is not because she is cold and uncaring, but because she has nothing left. I don’t know how we got here. “I need to tell you something. I read your emails to your therapist. I know it was wrong, and that I shouldn’t have, but you stopped talking to me and I just wanted to understand. I just wanted to know what was going on. I know that you don’t really love me, and I know that you canceled your sessions with her.”
The knot in my chest tightens. I have no idea what she is talking about. I didn’t cancel sessions, and I certainly never told my therapist that I don’t love her.