and wanting to be respectful of how I want this to go.
“You,” I say, unsure of where I’d even begin. I flash back to a conversation that started exactly this way about nine years ago. Darren had taken me out to our favorite restaurant, Gramercy Tavern, and told me there was something important he needed to discuss. I suspected it was about our decision to have kids, or rather my decision that I wasn’t ready yet. Darren had been tossing out not-so-subtle hints for months (gift certificates for pregnancy massages, a maternity clothes starter kit box set, and an entire library of What to Expect -type books), and I had been lovingly objecting to his suggestions that now would be a perfect time to start a family. I was scared of the enormity of having kids, the responsibility, the pregnancy, the impact on my career, the loss of identity.
That night, Darren ordered a fancy bottle of wine and got us a table near the fireplace. He even wore a suit (something most investment bankers hate to do on a Saturday night), determined as he was that I take him seriously and that he give the subject all the reverence it deserved. He told me he loved me so much and wanted to create something that would be part of us. Something that we could love and nurture together. His voice trembled and his eyes pled, and when I exhausted all of the reasons why I was hesitant—he had really good rebuttals for each—I told him yes. And I meant it. That might have been one of the more special nights we ever shared. When we got home, we ceremoniously dumped my birth control pills in the toilet, lit candles, and made love. While that wasn’t “the night,” it definitely cemented a deeper bond between us. We were embarking on a joint venture, one that would connect Darren and me forever.
“Okay.” He takes a deep breath and clasps his hands. “I’ve been thinking a lot about all of this, as I have been since it happened. And I’ve been really trying to look at this all from your perspective. And I can only imagine how bad this all is, Grace. I’m not sure where you’re at right now in terms of how you feel about me and all this. I’ve been frustrated because ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘I love you’ don’t say exactly what I want to say. I need much stronger words to convey the absolute regret I feel for doing that to you. I know I’ve hurt you so much, and I can’t believe I was capable of doing that.”
“I’m having a lot of trouble,” I start, looking into Darren’s glassy eyes. “I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to do and what I’m supposed to feel.” I speak slowly, calmly. “I never thought I’d be in this situation.”
Darren’s voice turns determined. “I promised you I would never cheat on you. And when I made that promise I meant it with every ounce of my being. And the fact that I’ve gone against that promise is killing me. I can’t forgive myself for what I’ve done to you.”
“I need to know something.” My voice is angry, accusatory. I’m relieved in a way that I’m not calm about this anymore. “How could you have had sex with me after you had sex with her?” I continue. There are so many thoughts buzzing in my head, so many big, important issues. “I keep coming back to the worry that even though you wore a condom, or say that you did, you might have gotten some disease from that woman!”
“I did wear a condom. And trust me, Grace, that was one of the first things that went through my mind when I woke up the next day,” Darren says firmly. My germaphobic husband is staying in character. “I went to Dr. Lambert as soon as I got back and got tested.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him the truth because I wanted him to test me for everything. I was mortified, it was one of the most humiliating things I’ve ever had to do, but I needed to know. I couldn’t make you pay for me being a complete idiot.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“And, did the test results come back
“You,” I say, unsure of where I’d even begin. I flash back to a conversation that started exactly this way about nine years ago. Darren had taken me out to our favorite restaurant, Gramercy Tavern, and told me there was something important he needed to discuss. I suspected it was about our decision to have kids, or rather my decision that I wasn’t ready yet. Darren had been tossing out not-so-subtle hints for months (gift certificates for pregnancy massages, a maternity clothes starter kit box set, and an entire library of What to Expect -type books), and I had been lovingly objecting to his suggestions that now would be a perfect time to start a family. I was scared of the enormity of having kids, the responsibility, the pregnancy, the impact on my career, the loss of identity.
That night, Darren ordered a fancy bottle of wine and got us a table near the fireplace. He even wore a suit (something most investment bankers hate to do on a Saturday night), determined as he was that I take him seriously and that he give the subject all the reverence it deserved. He told me he loved me so much and wanted to create something that would be part of us. Something that we could love and nurture together. His voice trembled and his eyes pled, and when I exhausted all of the reasons why I was hesitant—he had really good rebuttals for each—I told him yes. And I meant it. That might have been one of the more special nights we ever shared. When we got home, we ceremoniously dumped my birth control pills in the toilet, lit candles, and made love. While that wasn’t “the night,” it definitely cemented a deeper bond between us. We were embarking on a joint venture, one that would connect Darren and me forever.
“Okay.” He takes a deep breath and clasps his hands. “I’ve been thinking a lot about all of this, as I have been since it happened. And I’ve been really trying to look at this all from your perspective. And I can only imagine how bad this all is, Grace. I’m not sure where you’re at right now in terms of how you feel about me and all this. I’ve been frustrated because ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘I love you’ don’t say exactly what I want to say. I need much stronger words to convey the absolute regret I feel for doing that to you. I know I’ve hurt you so much, and I can’t believe I was capable of doing that.”
“I’m having a lot of trouble,” I start, looking into Darren’s glassy eyes. “I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to do and what I’m supposed to feel.” I speak slowly, calmly. “I never thought I’d be in this situation.”
Darren’s voice turns determined. “I promised you I would never cheat on you. And when I made that promise I meant it with every ounce of my being. And the fact that I’ve gone against that promise is killing me. I can’t forgive myself for what I’ve done to you.”
“I need to know something.” My voice is angry, accusatory. I’m relieved in a way that I’m not calm about this anymore. “How could you have had sex with me after you had sex with her?” I continue. There are so many thoughts buzzing in my head, so many big, important issues. “I keep coming back to the worry that even though you wore a condom, or say that you did, you might have gotten some disease from that woman!”
“I did wear a condom. And trust me, Grace, that was one of the first things that went through my mind when I woke up the next day,” Darren says firmly. My germaphobic husband is staying in character. “I went to Dr. Lambert as soon as I got back and got tested.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him the truth because I wanted him to test me for everything. I was mortified, it was one of the most humiliating things I’ve ever had to do, but I needed to know. I couldn’t make you pay for me being a complete idiot.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“And, did the test results come back
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