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Other Format. By the time I pull my car into the garage, my hands are shaking on the wheel. I tell myself I have no reason to feel so nervous. I tell myself I've done nothing wrong. I still sit there an extra beat, staring straight ahead, as if some magic answer to the mess that is my life will appear in the windshield.

With a bit of care, I can still slide out of the driver's seat. I'm bigger, but not that much bigger. I fight more with my bulky coat and the strap of my oversized purse, as I ease out from behind the steering wheel. Conrad bought me the purse as a Christmas gift last year. From Coach. Real leather. At least a couple hundred dollars. At the time, I'd been so excited I'd thrown my arms around him and squealed. He'd laughed, told me he'd seen me eyeing the bag in the store and had just known he had to get it for me. When I'd hugged him then, he'd hugged me back.

When I'd laughed that day, and giddily opened up the huge, gray leather bag to explore all the compartments, he'd laughed with me. The bulge in my belly would argue we'd found some way to connect, and yet, if not for the streams of bright colored lights and gaudy decorations covering my neighborhood, I'm not sure it would feel like the holidays at all.

As it is, we're one of the last undecorated houses on the block. A wreath on our door; that's it. Each weekend, we promised to get a tree. Each weekend, we didn't.

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I take my time hefting my purse over my shoulder. Then I turn and face the door leading from the garage into the house. Dead man walking, I think. And something crumples inside me. I don't cry. But I'm not sure why. The door is open. Cracked slightly. As if on the way out, I didn't pull it hard enough shut.

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Letting out all the heat, my father would say, which causes me a fresh pang of pain. I push through the interior door, close it firmly behind me. That's it. I'm home. Standing in the mudroom. Another day done. Another night to begin.

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Hang up the purse. Shrug out of the coat. Ease off the boots. Jacket on the coatrack. Shoes on the mat. I fish my cell phone out of my bag and set it up on the side table to charge. Then, I take a final moment. The kitchen? He could be sitting at the table.

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Waiting in front of a cold dinner. Or pointedly taking the last bite. Or maybe he's moved into the family room, ensconced in his recliner, feet up, beer in hand, eyes glued to ESPN. Sunday is football. Go Patriots.

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I've lived in Boston long enough to know that much. But Tuesday night? I never got into sports.

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He'd watch; I'd read. Back in the days when we spent so much time glued together, it seemed natural to also have some time apart. I don't hear the clinking of silverware from the kitchen. Nor the low rumble of TV from the family room. Door open, I remember.

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  • And my left hand flattens on the relatively small, but noticeable, curve of my belly. The hall leads me to the kitchen. A spindly table sits in front of the back window.

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    No sign of dinner. But then I notice a rinsed plate lying neatly in the sink. I should have a story, I think.

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    • An excuse. A lie. But in the growing silence, my thoughts churn more, my brain spinning wildly. I'm going to vomit. I can blame it on the baby. You can blame anything on pregnancy. I'm sick, I'm tired, I'm stupid, I lost track of time. Baby brain, pregnancy hormones. For nine whole months, nothing has to be my fault. And yet. Why did I come home tonight? Except, of course, where else do I have to go? Ever since I first met Conrad ten years ago.