I woke the next morning to the sound of Dererick moving around downstairs.
For a few seconds, I lay still and listened.
A cupboard opened.
Something was set on the counter.
Then I heard the kettle being filled.
I closed my eyes.
I did not want to begin another day by treating ordinary sounds as warnings.
I sat up and put my feet on the floor.
The room was cool, and the boards felt cold beneath my toes.
I pulled on a robe and went downstairs.
Dererick stood at the counter, waiting for the kettle.
“Morning.”
“Morning.”
He glanced at me.
“You look like you need more sleep.”
“I probably do.”
“Coffee?”
“No, thanks.”
He looked toward the kettle.
“Tea?”
The question came so naturally that I almost answered yes.
I had drunk tea in that kitchen for years.
It had been a small comfort, especially in the morning, when the day had not yet asked anything of me.
Now I could feel the old hesitation rise before I spoke.
“No, thank you.”
Dererick nodded and turned back to the counter.
I hated that the answer had become difficult.
I hated that he might have noticed.
I hated most of all that I did not know whether I was protecting myself from something real or allowing an unexplained fear to make our home smaller.
I poured myself a glass of water.
The water ran clear from the tap, and I watched it settle in the glass.
I drank half of it standing at the counter.
Dererick carried his mug to the table.
The chipped mug remained in the cupboard.
I knew exactly where it was without looking.
That knowledge had become almost physical.
I could picture its worn rim and the small flaw near the base.
I could picture the faint amber line that had remained after I poured out the tea, even though I had rinsed the mug and put it back.
I had spent so long returning to that moment that I sometimes forgot what had happened before it.
Dererick had made tea.
He had joked that I looked at it as though I thought he had poisoned me.
I had laughed, or tried to.
Later, while he was upstairs brushing his teeth, I had poured the tea into the sink.
I had not told him.
The memory still made my stomach tighten.
I could not pretend that my own secret did not matter simply because I was frightened by his.
Dererick sat at the table and opened his phone.
“Do you want me to make you some toast?”
“No, I'm okay.”
He looked up.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
He returned to his phone.
I stood by the counter, holding the empty glass.
I wanted to tell him that I was tired of answering questions about whether I was okay when what I needed was to ask him one.
But the thought sounded unfair when I put it into words.
He was asking because he had noticed something.
He might be worried about me.
He might simply be making conversation.
I did not know.
I put the glass in the sink.
Dererick finished his drink and stood.
“I'll be back later.”
“Okay.”
He came over and kissed my cheek.
I turned my face toward him just enough to meet the gesture.
He smiled.
“Try to get some rest today.”
“I will.”
After he left, I remained in the kitchen.
I could hear his footsteps fading beyond the door, then the quiet of the house returning.
I did not go to the window to watch him leave.
I wanted to give myself one small break from looking for meaning in everything he did.
Instead, I took the notebook from the drawer.
I opened it to the three sentences I had written the day before.
I saw Dererick put on gloves.
He picked up a black bag.
I do not know why.
I read them slowly.
The sentences were not an accusation.
They were not proof of anything beyond what I remembered seeing.
For the first time, I felt that I could hold those facts without immediately adding a frightening explanation.
I sat at the table and wrote another sentence beneath them.
I need to ask him what I saw.
I put the pen down.
The sentence looked almost embarrassingly simple.
It did not tell me how to ask.
It did not tell me what to do with his answer.
It only reminded me that the next step was mine to take.
I closed the notebook and returned it to the drawer.
Then I opened the cupboard.
The chipped mug stood where I had left it.
I reached up and took it down.
It felt ordinary in my hand.
The handle was slightly rough where the glaze had worn away, and the rim had a small uneven place I could feel with my thumb.
I turned it slowly beneath the kitchen light.
There was nothing remarkable about it.
No hidden mark.
No sign that anything had happened inside it.
I had known that already, but seeing it in my hand made the truth harder to avoid.
The mug could not tell me what Dererick had done in the bedroom.
It could not tell me why he wore gloves.
It could not tell me what he carried in the black bag.
I had wanted one object to connect all the pieces because I was afraid of what it meant to have no explanation.
I washed the mug, though it was already clean.
I dried it with the dish towel and placed it on the counter.
For a moment, I considered putting it back in the cupboard.
Instead, I set it on the table.
I did not know why I chose to leave it there.
Perhaps I wanted to stop hiding it from myself.
Perhaps I simply wanted the next time I saw it to be an ordinary moment rather than another return to the night I poured the tea away.
I made myself breakfast.
I ate at the table with the mug beside me.
I did not fill it.
I did not need to.
The rest of the day passed without any great change.
I answered messages and finished the laundry.
I went outside briefly to bring in something I had left near the door.
When I came back inside, the mug was still on the table.
I washed it again before putting it away.
By evening, I felt tired in a different way.
I had spent less time trying to imagine what Dererick might be doing and more time admitting what I did not know.
That did not make me calm.
It made the fear less tangled.
When he came home, he asked how my day had been.
“Quiet,” I said.
“Did you get some rest?”
“A little.”
He set his keys down and looked at me.
“I'm glad.”
I wanted to tell him that rest had not solved anything.
I wanted to tell him that I had been carrying a question around all day.
Instead, I asked whether he wanted dinner soon.
He said yes, and we began preparing it.
I cut vegetables while he filled a pot with water.
We worked without speaking for a few minutes.
Then he reached for a spoon, and our hands nearly touched.
I moved aside.
He noticed.
He did not make a joke this time.
“Are you sure you're okay?” he asked.
I looked at him.
The question was quiet.
There was no accusation in it that I could hear, and no answer hidden in his expression that I could recognize.
I was tired of saying yes when I did not know.
“I've been worried about something,” I said.
He put the spoon down.
“What is it?”
My heart beat hard enough that I felt it in my throat.
I could still retreat.
I could say it was nothing.
I could tell him I was only tired and let the moment pass as the others had passed.
But I had already done that too many times.
“I saw something the other night,” I said.
He remained still, listening.
I looked at his hands, then made myself look at his face.
“I saw you wearing gloves in the bedroom.”
The words were out.
They sounded smaller than they had in my head.
Dererick did not answer immediately.
I could hear the water beginning to simmer in the pot.
I waited.
He looked at me, and I could not tell what he was thinking.
I did not add the bag.
I did not mention the tea.
I did not tell him what I feared.
I had finally said what I knew.
Now I had to let him respond.
Click here to continue reading: PART 13: When I Finally Told Dererick What I Had Seen, His Silence Made Me Realize How Much I Had Been Afraid to Ask
At Two Seventeen, I Watched My Husband Cross Our Bedroom in Gloves, Carrying Something I Had Never Seen Before
Part 12 of 20
