Arguments.
Vacations.
Small jokes.
Ordinary Tuesdays.
I had believed the sandwiches were feeding Edward.
Instead, they had been feeding Robert.
But the notes?
Every single word had reached my husband.
He had read them.
Saved them.
Carried them.
Somehow, that mattered enormously.
Edward returned around 4:30.
We talked until seven.
I called my mother and asked her to collect Jamie from aftercare.
She simply said yes.
No questions.
Then Edward told me everything.
Architecture school.
Night classes after construction shifts.
The licensing exams.
His fear of failing.
He had originally kept school secret because he didn’t want to tell me he was chasing something if there was a chance he wouldn’t succeed.
“I would’ve loved you through failing,” I told him.
“I know that now.”
“I would have loved every version of you.”
“I believe you.”
He looked down.
“I probably believed it then too, somewhere underneath the fear.”
I understood that part more than I wanted to.
For twenty-four hours, fear had convinced me my husband might be in love with another woman.
Fear isn’t rational.
But it still hurts people.
“I’m not interested in apologies tonight,” I said.
“What do you want?”
I thought about it.
Then answered,
“I want you to show me your bridge.”
Edward stared.
“The pedestrian bridge?”
“Yes.”
“Now?”
“Right now.”
So we went.
The sun was beginning to set when we arrived.
The bridge crossed a small river connecting two neighborhoods.
I had walked across it before.
I had admired it.
I had photographed it.
Now Edward told me how it had been designed.
The engineering problem created by the bend in the river.
The planning meetings.
Neighborhood objections.
The redesigns.
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