Mr. Walker noticed it at once. This particular Wednesday morning was different from all the rest, and he liked it. He swung his feet over the side of the bed, took his blue and khaki striped robe off the hook as he did every morning, and padded into the kitchen. What usually met him was an empty kitchen, newspaper on the table. His wife, Mrs. Walker, was a journalist for the local newspaper and worked from home.
As she had told him many a time, she worked best in the mornings when the house was quiet, before he started bumbling about the house getting ready for work. Mr. Walker had long accepted his bumbling and was accustomed to managing breakfast for himself. He would holler a good morning and goodbye down the hallway to the home office and receive the same before stepping out the door, coat under arm, keys in the left hand and briefcase in the right.
On this particular morning, however, Mr. Walker padded into the kitchen and found the table set for two, coffee in the pot, and eggs and bacon in the skillet. Most surprising of all was Mrs. Walker. She was in the kitchen! And she was smiling! He was beginning to be quite concerned. Was it his birthday? Had he missed an anniversary? Was it a holiday?
Mrs. Walker, who had been staring at him while he thought these thoughts, answered them as if they'd been spoken. Why no, it wasn't any sort of special day, except that it was a day they woke up and just maybe it should be treated as some sort of special day and could he put the salt and pepper on the table?
Mr. Walker was still confused as to how his wife waking up meant that he should get his breakfast made for him, but he put the salt and pepper on the table. Mrs. Walker dished the eggs out of the pan and sat down across from Mr. Walker. She turned to him, and the smile was gone. In its place were two quivery lips and two tear-filled eyes. She shook her head and swept a tear from her cheek. She asked him if he had realized that she'd been unfaithful these past twelve years. He paused, fork aloft, as first surprise, disbelief, then pain crossed his face.
She outlined how it had begun. The new job at the paper was requiring a lot of time and thought. Her co-workers derived their satisfaction from writing top-notch articles and recounting weekend escapades. They didn't pick up after husbands who left their socks on the floor, and they certainly didn't entertain any sort of medieval notions of making them breakfast. She had begun to resent her implied role as housekeeper and cook. She ceased to see him as the one who could make her laugh, fix anything and taught the boy down the street how to play catch. He slowly became the outmoded, stodgy, ill-read husband her co-workers joked about at Christmas parties.
She looked him in the eyes, checking for understanding. She continued. They were wrong; she was wrong. Swearing on an altar to be faithful to someone for the rest of your life doesn't just mean you live with them or maintain sexual fidelity. She'd said "love, honor, and obey". Sure, things like sickness and health, plenty and want happen, but what about the days in between? Every morning she had just hollered good morning and goodbye, she had been unfaithful to that promise to the days in between. It wasn't just breakfast, but that was part of it, and could he possibly forgive her for breaking her promise to be faithful to the task of making him all he could be?
Mr. Walker's mind was, understandably, reeling. First an announcement of infidelity, then the discovery of this infidelity not being the conventional sort, but quite a bit more extensive, though less initially offensive. All at once, Mr. Walker was glad to be thought of as worth a confession and apology, as he had begun to think he really was the outmoded, stodgy, ill-read husband her co-workers joked about. He was troubled that his marriage could have fallen into such disarray under his watch. And he was hopeful that this breakfast might be the first of many breakfasts with Mrs. Walker, enjoying her company and learning what it was meant by the phrase "happily married".
As she had told him many a time, she worked best in the mornings when the house was quiet, before he started bumbling about the house getting ready for work. Mr. Walker had long accepted his bumbling and was accustomed to managing breakfast for himself. He would holler a good morning and goodbye down the hallway to the home office and receive the same before stepping out the door, coat under arm, keys in the left hand and briefcase in the right.
On this particular morning, however, Mr. Walker padded into the kitchen and found the table set for two, coffee in the pot, and eggs and bacon in the skillet. Most surprising of all was Mrs. Walker. She was in the kitchen! And she was smiling! He was beginning to be quite concerned. Was it his birthday? Had he missed an anniversary? Was it a holiday?
Mrs. Walker, who had been staring at him while he thought these thoughts, answered them as if they'd been spoken. Why no, it wasn't any sort of special day, except that it was a day they woke up and just maybe it should be treated as some sort of special day and could he put the salt and pepper on the table?
Mr. Walker was still confused as to how his wife waking up meant that he should get his breakfast made for him, but he put the salt and pepper on the table. Mrs. Walker dished the eggs out of the pan and sat down across from Mr. Walker. She turned to him, and the smile was gone. In its place were two quivery lips and two tear-filled eyes. She shook her head and swept a tear from her cheek. She asked him if he had realized that she'd been unfaithful these past twelve years. He paused, fork aloft, as first surprise, disbelief, then pain crossed his face.
She outlined how it had begun. The new job at the paper was requiring a lot of time and thought. Her co-workers derived their satisfaction from writing top-notch articles and recounting weekend escapades. They didn't pick up after husbands who left their socks on the floor, and they certainly didn't entertain any sort of medieval notions of making them breakfast. She had begun to resent her implied role as housekeeper and cook. She ceased to see him as the one who could make her laugh, fix anything and taught the boy down the street how to play catch. He slowly became the outmoded, stodgy, ill-read husband her co-workers joked about at Christmas parties.
She looked him in the eyes, checking for understanding. She continued. They were wrong; she was wrong. Swearing on an altar to be faithful to someone for the rest of your life doesn't just mean you live with them or maintain sexual fidelity. She'd said "love, honor, and obey". Sure, things like sickness and health, plenty and want happen, but what about the days in between? Every morning she had just hollered good morning and goodbye, she had been unfaithful to that promise to the days in between. It wasn't just breakfast, but that was part of it, and could he possibly forgive her for breaking her promise to be faithful to the task of making him all he could be?
Mr. Walker's mind was, understandably, reeling. First an announcement of infidelity, then the discovery of this infidelity not being the conventional sort, but quite a bit more extensive, though less initially offensive. All at once, Mr. Walker was glad to be thought of as worth a confession and apology, as he had begun to think he really was the outmoded, stodgy, ill-read husband her co-workers joked about. He was troubled that his marriage could have fallen into such disarray under his watch. And he was hopeful that this breakfast might be the first of many breakfasts with Mrs. Walker, enjoying her company and learning what it was meant by the phrase "happily married".
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