We picked their names on a rainy Sunday night in the den.
Benjamin for our son. After her grandfather.
Abigail for our daughter. Just because Margaret loved it.
Margaret started getting their room ready almost immediately. She compared fabric swatches. She folded tiny onesies into perfect little squares. She read every book about twins she could find.
And I approved the invoices. And sometimes stood in the doorway and admired her work.
I told myself that providing everything was another way of loving her.
It never occurred to me how lonely generosity can feel when the person giving it isn’t there.
By the time Margaret hit thirty-six weeks, she couldn’t sleep comfortably anymore. Even walking across our bedroom took her a long time. One hand always on the wall or the dresser.
Two days before I left for Florida, we sat in her obstetrician’s office in Greenwich.
Dr. Lansing looked straight at me. Not at Margaret. At me.
“Mr. Mercer, I strongly recommend you stay close to home from now on. Twins often come early. Your wife may need you at any moment.”
I nodded. I squeezed Margaret’s hand. I promised I understood.
What I didn’t tell either one of them was that I’d already booked a flight to Palm Beach.
Where a thirty-year-old interior design consultant named Vanessa Whitmore was waiting for me.
Vanessa and I had been seeing each other for about eight months. I hid it under made-up business meetings and carefully timed phone calls.
By then, the lying had become so routine I hardly ever stopped to think about what it said about me.
Vanessa was charming. Attentive. She was very good at making me feel more interesting than I actually was. She’d listen to stories about my work with a kind of admiration I’d stopped expecting from my wife.
Margaret knew the man behind all the accomplishments. Including his selfishness. And his impatience. And the way he checked his phone at dinner.
Vanessa only knew the version of me who showed up at expensive restaurants carrying gifts.
I mistook that admiration for love.
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