Be Heard

“Finally. You’re home. I was beginning to think I’d have to leave without you.”

Wincing, Jose closed the door behind him. A year earlier, his wife, Jolie, had insisted they install recessed lighting, and each night since the project was completed, crossing the threshold triggered a painful flash of blindness from her chosen solar-strength bulbs. It was an unnecessary addition to the house, but she got what she wanted, and he no longer had to suffer her relentless chatter about the virtues of inconspicuous lighting. Even temporary nighttime blindness seemed a small price to pay to put the matter to rest, but, invariably, the completion of one project led to another. A fresh coat of paint. Updated furniture. New draperies to complement the new carpet. It was always something.

“You need to get ready for the concert,” Jolie urged him. She seemed to enjoy scolding him, no matter what he was doing, as if he were a loafing child. “We only have a little time. I want you to take a quick shower, but before you do, run up to the attic and bring down the last few boxes of decorations. It’ll just take a moment. You know where they are—by the window on the bottom shelf. They’re labeled. I’ll start on them tomorrow if my appointment doesn’t run too late. I knew we waited too long this year. I already dropped the boys off at the school. The concert starts at seven, so you don’t have time to eat. We need to do something about those kitchen cabinets. I see you didn’t stop at the dry cleaner, so I guess now I have to wear my navy blue…”

As directed, four dusty boxes were delivered to the living room, where a bare fir tree stood in the corner. It needed a day for its branches to settle, or so he had been informed repeatedly and at length. The tree had a decent shape and height, but, naked, it was just a tower of darkness amid the room's harsh lighting; it looked sad and trapped, nervously waiting for whatever was to come next. Jolie had insisted on a dense tree from an American farm, a Douglas fir (and no other), and it had to be tall enough to touch the ceiling. She got what she wanted on every point. Soon, it would be overdressed in her meticulously placed ornaments, and not long after, it would dry and drop its needles, his cue to drag it to the curb, where it would be collected, pulverized, and spread over some campground trail. Jose stared at the tree and, for a moment, felt it staring back, as though each was challenging the other on who had it worse.

Jolie jabbered away, unceasing and often unpunctuated, issuing directives and random observations. Her voice followed him up the stairs, cut through the shower spray, and continued as he dressed in the clothes chosen for him. He had no idea what she was even talking about. Their lives were not busy or exciting enough to warrant so many words, yet she never ran out of them. And while he heard her, he wasn’t listening; she performed it so often that he could practically sing along. She always recalled the housework, their sons’ activities, the shopping, and the neighborhood gossip, all topped off with a laughable reminder of her weekly therapy appointment, which she said was her only opportunity to vent. 

Jose was a follower. Throughout his life, he deferred to his family, classmates, strangers, wife, and even his sons. He had no motive and wasn’t trying to earn anyone’s favor, and yet he had plenty of opinions he chose not to share. To yield to others was to avoid conflict; to withhold his objections and follow instructions was to keep the painfully ordinary days moving. 

It was all fine until it wasn’t. The ‘yes-dear’ years turned into the grunting and nodding years, which eventually led to the silent years. Jolie’s grating babble had eroded his façade of contentment, revealing a man wounded by a life of deliberate indifference. Jose sometimes wondered if it was all just part of being an average suburban dad; he had already adopted some of the more typical traits. Approaching fifty, he was overworked, over-routinized, and sexually unfulfilled. His appearance bordered on distinguished maturity. He was attractive, provided he didn’t slouch, and considered himself comparatively intelligent, but his passive and mutely compliant nature overshadowed all he had going for him. He was stuck in a life of his own making and would likely always be. And though he had no ability for outward expression, deep down, he was well-practiced at releasing everything he felt but would never say. Scoffing, cursing, wringing his hands raw, shouting—he did it all, but only in his mind. 

By the time they arrived at the middle school, Jose still had not uttered one word. The concert was a welcome break; a cluster of squeaky woodwinds was preferable to his wife’s voice any day. Jolie had to remain silent during the program of holiday standards. But all too soon came the finale, for which every head on stage donned a Santa Claus hat, delighting the families in attendance. The instant the lights went up, she began raving about how well their sons had played, as though she could separate their talents from the rest of the discordant middle school band.   

The lobby reeked of the cleaning chemicals typically found in prisons and public schools. Jose was anxious to leave because he knew what was coming. Jolie began introducing her husband to some of their sons’ teachers and other parents. He offered only a smile with each handshake, allowing his wife her routine on the often-sought clarification of his name. He knew it so well that his lips unconsciously moved in sync with her words.

“His name is Jose. It’s spelled like José, but it’s not. Jose. As in more than one Joe. And it’s not short for Joseph either. It’s not short for anything. I do not know what his parents were thinking.”

“They certainly weren’t thinking I would marry someone as obnoxious as you. It’s just a name. Say it and move on, you pretentious shrew.”

Every jaw within listening distance dropped to the floor, or might have, had the words left his brain and broken through his pursed lips. Instead, as usual, he shrugged and nodded with a slight smile. 

Relief was granted when the boys, in matching puffy coats and carrying instrument cases, found their parents and immediately began to assault them with can-I-dos and can-I-haves. Jose took a trombone case in one hand and a saxophone in the other and followed the rest of his family to the car as they recounted what seemed like every note of the concert. A quiet ride wasn’t expected, but was it too much to hope for, he wondered, that they at least not speak over one another? They never stopped talking, but he couldn’t understand a word. 

Once they reached the middle of the parking lot, Jose abruptly released the instruments onto the asphalt and informed his wife he was off to find company that wouldn’t make him want to puncture his own eardrums. He threw the car keys at her feet and walked away.  

Except he didn’t. It was a short-lived fantasy that ended once the trunk, with the horns tucked inside, was closed.  

Jose felt guilty about his imaginings, but also for not being a better role model for his sons. They deserved a stronger father, one with a firm grip on the family. He couldn’t remember why he had gotten married or if he ever truly wanted children—thoughts he wouldn’t allow himself to dwell on for fear that too much self-reflection might trigger an eruption of regret. It was better for all involved, he decided, to remain dormant.

Thirty pre-teen musicians plodding through a seasonal setlist was a picnic compared to the annual obligation that followed the next evening in the banquet hall of a local boutique hotel. There, amid the strings of white lights intended to create a non-specific holiday atmosphere, guests were content to eat and drink all they could on their company’s dime. Every year, Jose would be treated to the same show, in which his colleagues danced, got drunk, and, worst of all, danced while drunk. On the upside, Jolie always chose to abandon him, choosing to spend the evening with her gaggle of friends. But first, there was the unavoidable duty to his 85-year-old employer.  

“Mr. Brand, you remember my wife, Jolie?”

“Well, yes indeed, Joe.” The hunched old man’s red face lit up with a disturbing excitement. “Aren’t you lovely?” He giggled and took Jolie’s hand, shakily raising it to his shiny, wet lips.  

Jose watched in disgust as Brand devoured Jolie’s every word, brazenly resting one trembling hand on the small of her back and rubbing her arm with the other.  

It wasn’t a shock; the old man was known to grope any woman who stood still long enough to allow it. 

“Sir, I’m curious,” Jose interjected. “In the thousand years you’ve been alive, how many drinks would you say have been thrown in your face?”

Brand looked at him, perplexed.

“You’re a horny, old pig of a man, a sexual harassment suit waiting to happen. Do you know just how many at this party eagerly await the day when it all comes back to bite you on your sick, saggy ass?”

Jose didn’t know what would happen next, and he never would find out since he hadn’t said any of it. Instead, he cringed as his employer withdrew a sprig of mistletoe from his jacket pocket and held it as high as he could manage. With a flirtatious smile, Jolie leaned in close to Brand and his wet mouth, turning to offer her cheek at the last moment. 

“We just wanted to wish you a happy holiday and thank you for this marvelous evening,” she told him in an overly playful tone.

“Yes,” Brand said with a big, dentured grin, examining Jolie’s bust while clutching her waist. “Well, do stop to say good night before you leave tonight, my dear.”  

As they walked off, Jose gave his wife a sour look.

“Oh, he’s a harmless old man. You’ll be that old one day.”

“Twenty years, and he still gets my name wrong,” he mumbled.

“Oh, there are the girls. I’m going to have a chat. You’ll have to keep yourself company…” Words continued to fall from her mouth as she breezed across the room to join her friends.

Adjacent to the party, a sleepy hotel bar beckoned. Jose navigated through the crowd, passing the buffet tables and the already crowded dance floor to the quiet, softly lit space, adorned with potted palms and brass-enhanced mahogany woodwork. Two couples occupied the otherwise empty room—one in armchairs and the other in a corner booth—sharing Jose's preference for the laid-back lounge over the raucous ballroom. Although he would need to pay for his drinks at the bar, that was not enough reason to choose the cheap wine and company of coworkers. With a full-bodied sigh, Jose took a seat at the bar, happily decompressing, devoid of thought, as though his brain had been disconnected.  A bartender brought him back to Earth, wanting his drink order. He heard himself ask for a loaded weapon, yet he was served scotch. 

Out of nowhere, a voice as soft as the lighting slid into his quiet.

“Any room for a lady here?” 

Her voice—rich, smoky, and just north of a whisper—could draw any man's gaze, but after just one sip, Jose had yet to shake off his reality. He lazily lifted his hand, gesturing to the nine empty seats at the bar, only to realize that her question was a flirtation. He sat up straight, as if commanded to attention. In a shimmery silver dress, the woman smiled and claimed the seat directly at his side. She moved with the grace of a dancer, floating and feminine. Her easy manner was beguiling, something he had never encountered before. 

Jose offered to buy her a drink, and they began to chat about the party, his job, his family, and the holidays. He was enraptured, but not because of her beauty, body, or gentility; she asked him questions and listened to his replies, which made her the most exciting woman in the world. 

The two-drink discussion lasted for well over an hour when his wife’s distant cackle drifted from the party into the bar.

“I must tell you,” Jose said, paying the bar tab, “this has been a great pleasure. And you have no idea how much I needed conversation and normal adult company.”

“The pleasure was mine. Let me give you my number.”

Jose stammered as he sheepishly reminded her that he was married.

“Of course,” she replied. “But if you’d like to…talk some more, it’s sort of my field.” 

“Oh. Are you a therapist or something?”

“Or something.” She handed him a black business card bearing only a telephone number beneath a name in a sparkling, red script: CHÉRI BRANDY. “I do have introductory rates.”

“Oh,” Jose thought for a moment and blushed. “Well, um, I don’t…that is, I don’t think I could ever pay a woman to….”

“I understand. Listen, different strokes and all that, right? You might like my friend Rocco—”

“No, no. What I meant is that I don’t think I could ever—” He looked into her eyes with an apologetic expression. 

“Of course. But you know what? Go ahead and keep the card. Just know when it comes to my clients, I’m nothing if not discreet. In fact, like yourself, most are married.” She smiled, tucked her purse under her arm, and shook his hand. “So, it was nice to meet you, Jose. In case I don’t have the pleasure again, happy holidays.”

He watched her glide away, not with lustful eyes, although there was excitement in knowing he could have her by putting his wallet to work. Instead, he marveled at how she allowed him to forget how he was used to behaving around anyone. He preferred the company of a stranger over his wife. And he wanted more.

Jolie was found among a group of women who insincerely balked at her departure. Jose led the way to the car, depriving their host of any further flirting and fondling, and handed his wife the car keys; his drinks had been strong, and he knew she couldn’t have stopped talking long enough all evening to take more than a sip.

“What a nice evening,” she declared. “Oh. There is so much to do this week. I’m decorating that tree tomorrow, for sure. The boys’ winter break starts on Thursday, and they’ll be underfoot, so I have to finish everything before then. You ran off for the entire night.”

“I sat at the bar and talked to a hooker.”

“Before I forget, go to the cleaners on your way home tomorrow. You know what? I’ll call you at the end of the day to remind you. I have to have my red….”

What was wrong with her? he wondered. Does she not want me to speak? Did she even hear me, or is she so caught up in her words that she blocks everything else out?  

“Well, right on time.” Chéri stood at her door, wearing a simple, yet sexy, black dress, flawlessly styled hair, and a welcoming smile. She led a tentative Jose into her living room, where sheer drapes perfectly filtered the last of the evening light. He was invited to make himself comfortable as she lowered the music and poured drinks.  

“Have a little sherry with Chéri,” she purred.  

They settled onto a blue velvet settee as Jose awkwardly initiated a conversation about payment, during which she confirmed the rate and his assumption of a cash-only policy. He looked around. The apartment, which was located in a chic residential tower, was elegantly decorated for luxury without being overindulgent; she lived very well. Chéri was no ordinary prostitute. She was a high-end sex worker. 

“So, what happens now?” Jose asked.

“What do you want to happen now?” she asked in a semi-whisper. Her new client was speechless. “I know the first visit can seem strange, and I want you to be comfortable. No pressure.” Chéri placed her glass on the table and crossed her legs, preparing to give him all her attention. “Would you like to share what you’re thinking? Maybe tell me why you decided to see me again?”

He was mesmerized by her lips as he had been at their first meeting. When she slowed her speech for effect, her striking red mouth took on an unusual shine in the soft light, and the gentle motion of her lips was as hypnotic as a languid jellyfish propelling itself through the water. The room was calm, and he felt safe.

“This is new to me. I’m sorry. Our meeting the other night was so unexpected.” He shrugged. “You listened to me.”

“Mm-hmm. Tell me, how long have you felt unheard?”

Jose silently searched for an answer, rewinding the years in his mind, but found nothing. Chéri smiled and nodded, acknowledging how difficult it was for him, and waited for her new client to decide what came next. Two sips of sherry later, he broke the silence.

“I think I’ve just been going through the motions.” Jose looked at her as though confessing to a horrible crime. “I don’t know how I got here. I mean, not here, but to this point in my life. I don’t know how long I can go on like this.” 

Having broken through his shell, he spoke about his work obligations, house, children, and wife. Chéri listened, stealing an occasional glance at the wall clock. He had spoken for so long that he surpassed the hired hour, the realization of which caused her to interrupt.

“I hear you, sweetness. These are valid thoughts that shouldn’t be ignored. Don’t you dare dismiss them,” Chéri cautioned. “Now, I know you’ve got much more inside, and I’m here for you. But unfortunately, our time together for this evening has come to an end. I hope you’re not disappointed we didn’t get to anything else.”

Jose, feeling lighter, released a sigh.

“Could I make another appointment?” 

Jolie insisted they dine out to celebrate the beginning of the boys’ two weeks off from school; it wasn’t a typical practice, but she could always be counted on to devise a reason to show herself off in public. She overdressed, as expected, costumed to portray a woman of a higher station, several rungs above her own social standing. Yet that night, she looked worn. Her figure wasn’t what it used to be, he thought, but then, neither was his. Her hair was over-processed and dry; she had wrinkles he hadn’t noticed before, and an applied face could no longer conceal the bags under her eyes. How had he never noticed these things? No part of her was particularly displeasing. Still, when dressed and coiffed to present herself as someone she wasn’t—a younger, wealthier woman—he realized he never truly knew the person behind the performance. He never would.  

The boys' treat meal was at a semi-formal restaurant with no burgers, pizza, or other kid-friendly options available. A waiter, whose expression revealed his experience, took note of Jolie’s excessive chatter and removed a rarely-used pad from his apron.

“I’ll have the chicken Caesar salad with half the cheese you normally use. But I’ll start with a glass of chardonnay and the stuffed mushroom appetizer unless there are onions in them. There are. I thought so. Then, instead, maybe just some bruschetta for the table, and you know what? Let’s change the Caesar to the chicken Cobb salad, but no chives and half the usual blue cheese. And vinaigrette on the side. And maybe instead of the chard—”  

“Fucking hell! Pick something and stick with it.” Jose slammed his menu shut, enjoying the words he didn’t say but deeply wished he had. He could only watch in embarrassed exhaustion. 

“And maybe instead of the chardonnay, the sauvignon blanc? A little drier, I’m guessing.”

Finally, Jolie was finished, and after two more dizzying rounds with the boys’ orders, she turned to Jose.

“You were interested in the vea—“ 

His hand, raised to signal silence, took her by surprise. Jose looked at the waiter.

“Sirloin. Rare. Scotch.”

Unfazed by her husband’s curt response, Jolie turned to her sons and recited the events and tasks for the holiday week in great detail.

Before her client arrived, Chérie prepared for business—lighting candles, spraying perfume, and selecting soft music. Jose noticed none of it. Instead, he wasted no time on small talk and went right to his troubles, namely a growing regret for losing himself to routine. For two decades, he moved numbers from one column to another, recording profits and losses over and over again. It was a fine career, but in his case, it lacked variety and any room for promotion. The repetitive days added up to monotonous years while he wasn’t paying attention; he had been trapped in a second-floor, windowless office throughout what was supposed to have been the prime of his life. Lately, he said, the only benefit of work was having somewhere to go—a daily respite from his home life.

“I don’t think it’s very healthy for work to be your hiding place.”

“If I can’t use my time away from home to forget about my life, Jolie’s voice will never leave my head for a moment. I think my brain would explode.”

“My goodness, you must have been an interesting child.” Chérie instantly regretted the comment, knowing it would plunge her deeper into his history.

“I was studious. Obedient as a Boy Scout. I never got in trouble. I followed all the rules. I thought that was enough, I guess. That’s what good boys did. I didn’t have many friends; I just kept to myself. It’s like an old group photo from your school days. There’s always that one kid you can’t quite put a name to or even remember ever crossing paths with them. That’s me. I’m that superfluous face in the background.” 

“Fading into the background is expected when you’re not too assertive or confident. How did that child become this man?”

“I did what everyone else did, and this is where I landed. You don’t see it coming, and suddenly it’s too late. Youth comes with a momentum you don’t have as an adult. I sailed through and joined the conventional course. College, job, wife, house. Two kids, two cars, two weeks of vacation a year.  What a joke. Whoever came up with that?”

“Came up with what?”

“The notion that happiness just requires assembly.”

“Why don’t I get you a drink?”

“I’m scared,” he confessed to himself as though alone. “I’m right between the first half of my life, which was unfulfilling, and the second half that I don’t have instructions for.” Jose turned to Chérie. “Is this a mid-life crisis?”

“Are you going to purchase a sports car on impulse? Start dyeing your hair and wearing clothes made for teenagers?”

“No, no,” Jose snickered.  “But I have less of what I like about myself and more of what I hate. And age seems to be slowing me down to complete uselessness. I don’t know what to do.”

“My, you are all over the place today,” she told him.

“I’m sorry.”

“Mmm. You know that song, The Man That Got Away?”

Jose shrugged, wondering where she was headed.

“Sure you do. Best torch song ever written. You’ve been singing it since you walked in, sugar, and you need to knock it off.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re the man. You. He left you—the man you wanted, the one you didn’t get to be. You’re the mess he left behind, and suddenly, the years are gone. What made him leave? Woe is me. Where’s he gone to?”

Jose looked at her skeptically.

“Where did he go?” she asked. “I’m asking.”

“Things happened.” Jose blinked his eyes firmly to cover up the tears trying to escape.

“Things are supposed to. Stop carrying a torch for who you were or wanted to be. You’re the one who let him get away.” She was assertive but not unkind. “Now, some things we are powerless against, I’ll grant you that. But to paraphrase Dr. Angelou, you can’t allow yourself to be reduced by the events in your life.” She stood, walked to an elegant writing table, and scribbled the quotation onto a sheet of pink stationery paper, which she folded in half and presented to Jose. “You know, she was once a sex worker, too. We know things.”

“Yeah? What else do you know?”

“When you feel defeated, consider the events of your life. What lifted you? And what weighed you down? Which defines you more?”

“And then?”

“No point in looking for a solution until you identify the problem. You’ll get there. Now, baby, I’m sorry to stop, but it’s about that time.” She turned to a wall mirror and attempted to introduce some body into her hair by gently pushing her fingers into it.“Listen, sweetness, I need to make sure you don’t feel you’re being short-changed here. You know you’re invited to enjoy the same services as my other clients, right?” She looked at a speechless Jose. “Generally, the service I provide is a physical one. I’d be remiss if I didn’t make that clear.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t need that. I guess I’m not a good client. I just can’t. I mean, everything works just fine, don’t get me wrong. And it’s not you; you’re wonderful, and I’m sure you’re good at… it. It just doesn’t interest me. Can I still make another appointment, though?” 

“Sure. But keep in mind, next week, I’ll flip into surge pricing. The holidays. You understand.”

The towering, dark tree had been transformed into a glimmering holiday centerpiece worthy of a department store window. The twinkling lights, tinsel, and glowing ornaments were so abundant that anyone who didn’t know better might not believe a tree was underneath. The entire room was outfitted with color-coordinated decorations. Greeting cards were displayed, along with stockings, candles, and lights in the windows, all brought together by the velvet tones of Johnny Mathis.

Jolie was wrapping gifts while speaking on the telephone, clearly denying the other party space to respond to anything she said. Capping each sentence with a tear of cellophane tape from its dispenser, she droned on until suddenly, Jose realized she had hung up and was speaking to him. His assignment for the evening was to install the multi-colored exterior lights along the roof.  

“You do it. Get out and give me some peace. Christ, I beg you. And try to keep your mouth shut for one night, will you?” 

He carried his unspoken words to the garage, where the inevitably tangled string of lights awaited. It was old, likely a hazard, but he plugged them into an outlet to identify where a replacement might be needed before climbing up the ladder. 

Suddenly, Jose opened his eyes to the sky, the cold, hard earth pressing against his back. He was uninjured but had no idea whether he had fallen from the ladder or if the ancient wiring had shocked him to the ground. The ability to move was present, but the desire was not. The cold night told him to stay, that it would keep him warm. In his ears, there was nothing but the most beautiful silence, while his eyes saw only stars dusting the darkness and the fog of his breath. He remained as long as he could, but not nearly as long as he desired.

The holidays came and went, and after what felt like an eternity to Jose, the school break was over. He loved his sons, but the house had been bustling for two weeks. It was time for old routines to return for the new year. That’s what he expected, but not what he wanted. How long would he be able to carry on?

“Is this it? Is this how life is?” Jose was holding himself. Beneath a stress headache, his body felt weak. “Tell me. I need to be told what to do. What am I supposed to do?”  

“Don’t concern yourself with what is supposed to happen,” Chérie cautioned. “There is no such thing.”

For a long while, he felt the heavy silence. The gentle sounds of a piano playing something he had never heard came from the stereo. The lights were dimmed, and a candle subtly scented the air with lavender. The peace was almost too much to take. Even the hooker had a better life.

“I wish I could start over,” he declared lazily. “Become someone else.”

“Who do you want to be?” Chérie saw his frustration.

“That’s the thing—I have no idea. I don’t know if I ever did.” As Jose stared across the room, his eyes filled with tears, but he held onto every drop. “I know I should want something. I’m a man who can’t make his own decisions. I don’t know why. My wife tells me what to do every day, and I do it because she doesn’t listen to me anyway. And she never stops talking. Ever. My god. I may as well not even be there.” He took a deep breath and a sip of wine. “It’s not a marriage. But if I end it, I’m afraid of what it will do to the boys. And to me. I wouldn’t know what to do next. Like in that movie, when the man is finally released from prison. The freedom is too much to handle. I mean, I don’t exactly live in a high-security prison, but I don’t know what’s on the other side of the wall. Not really. I know men—co-workers—who divorced, and in no time at all, they married again. I mean, really quickly, within a year. What’s up with that?”

“Dear heart, don’t be jarred by this question, but have you considered seeing someone about this?”

“I see you. You want me to go to a therapist? A psychiatrist? What will I get from them that I don’t get here?”

“Well, medication for one.”

“Nah. Not for me. You know, my wife goes to therapy, has for years.”

“Mmm. She pays someone to listen to her? No irony in that at all.”

“A therapist is going to tell me exactly what you will. If my marriage is not working, I should end it.”

“That is not what I would say.” Chérie was short and stern, almost scolding, but quickly reset herself. “I say take one step at a time. I’ve said it before. Address the root problem. You’re not being heard at home. The solution? Make yourself heard. It is that simple. Make your thoughts known; if necessary, insist on being heard. You may be pleasantly surprised at what happens once you do.” 

The scented candle lit during each session suddenly lost its flame, sending a thin ribbon of smoke upward until the wick’s last ember vanished.

“We all want to be heard. Every one of us.” Chérie leaned in closer and put her hands on his to deliver a blessing of empowerment. “Be heard.” 

Jose returned home armed with a mantra bestowed on him by a prostitute. Be heard, be heard, be heard, he chanted in his head. Be heard.

He dimmed the lights to ease his eyestrain when the darkness of the again-bare tree caught his attention. Christmas had been bubble-wrapped, boxed, and was ready for its off-season home in the attic. Jose started to prepare a drink when he noticed Jolie sitting silently at the kitchen table.

“Can we talk?” she asked.

Be heard. Be heard. 

“You mean, can you talk?”

She quickly glanced at him, indicating she had no idea what he meant, but pressed on.

“Well, I’ll just come right out with it. This isn’t working, Jose. We’re not suited, not anymore. I’m leaving. I think it’s best for us and, in the long run, best for the boys. I wanted to wait until after the holidays. I’m sorry.”

A short exhale blasted from Jose as he began to shake his head. His relief was momentary. Suddenly, he felt cheated, robbed of the opportunity to put his hooker-taught lesson to the test. He stood in disbelief. 

Jolie took a deep breath and continued. “I’ve been seeing someone. Doctor… Well, Paul, my therapist. For a while now. A year, maybe. I’m tired of hiding it, Jose. And I’m just tired. Paul is different. He doesn’t let everything fall on my shoulders.” 

An exasperated Jose sat at the table beside his wife, cradling his head in his hands. He remained silent until a muffled chuckle escaped, which Jolie mistook for a sob. She placed her hand on his back to console him, believing she had shattered his heart.