Always Busy

For years Hannah was the one who explained where Greg was. He's on a deadline. He's traveling. He's wiped out, let him sleep. She said it to teachers at recitals, to her mother on birthdays, to their daughter over pancakes on Saturday mornings while his place at the table stayed set and empty.

When she finally told him she wanted a divorce, he looked at her as if she had started speaking another language. He had no idea, he said. He would change.

And he did, for a while. He took three days off. He made dinner, badly and with great effort. He stood at the edge of the pool for their daughter's swim meet and cheered so loudly that other parents turned to look. Everyone who loved Hannah told her the same thing: he's trying, give him a chance.

She filed anyway. Within a month of the papers, Greg was back to seventy-hour weeks and unanswered texts. That was when she understood what the three days had been. They were not the beginning of a different husband. They were a negotiation.

Their daughter stopped asking when Dad would be home. Hannah stopped supplying reasons.

Years later, at a family gathering, Greg said the divorce had destroyed their family. Hannah was not angry by then, and she kept her voice kind. "No," she said. "The absence did that. The divorce just made it visible."