Michael and Susan

Chapter 8 (Susan): Praying

Copyright © 2024 by GroveltoHEA

There's isn't much difference between taking care of your landlady and taking care of your husband. I cooked, cleaned, did her laundry and ran errands for her in exchange for the most minimal of rent and the use of her car. 

We ate our meals together and chatted at nights. I confess I did miss the TV that Michael and I had bought the previous year, but Mrs. Engel told me that a radio was good enough for her, so we listened to music or some shows that were still on the air, or sometimes we just talked. Some nights I read books from the library out loud to her, but she preferred her Bible, however, so I often read to her from the Good Book.

My Avon sales were going strong. I made my calls twice a week, took my orders and continued in the top three for sales.

Every day, I missed Michael. I missed being his wife. And although I'd been very much on my own for much of those seven Linda months, he was still beside me in bed at night, still making love to me, still kissing me hello first thing in the morning and kissing me good night. I missed the way he smelled of English Leather, the feel of his strong arms around me, the solidness of his broad chest under my cheek. I missed him walking in the door and seeking me out first thing. 

"You miss him," Mrs. Engel said to me some days, peering at me with her wise eyes.

She was right; many days my heart was heavy with longing for Michael, and I questioned my decision to leave him. Many wives had to forgive much, much worse than months of lies and a thought of adultery, and yet they stayed in their homes and looked away from what was going on with their husbands. They pretended all was well. Why couldn't I do the same? Why couldn't I overlook the time he'd spent with Linda and just trust he would do better in the future?

"I do," I admitted to her. "I miss him."

"Do you want to go home, Susan?"

"Every day," I said honestly. "But as much as I want to, I just can't. I can't forget what he's done and sweep it under the rug."

"And why is that?"

"Because he could do it again. And again. I know the man is the head of the house, and he has all the authority over me, but that doesn't seem right, somehow. Men should not be allowed to do what they want and expect their wives to pretend everything is fine."

"You sound like the women who fought for suffrage. I remember my parents fighting over a woman's right to vote. When our state ratified the Nineteenth Amendment in 1920, he told her no wife of his would ever vote for the president, and she told him no husband of hers would ever eat dinner again without wondering if there was rat poison in his food if he tried to stop her. My mother was quite advanced for the times. Although not in the use of rat poison in a husband's meals. That was nothing new, especially out in the country where we lived."

"I don't feel like much of anything except a failure as a wife," I said.

"You aren't a failure as anything, much less a wife, Susan. Did his letter arrive this week?"

Three days after I left him, a letter arrived for me from Michael.

Dear Susan,

I'm sorry I hurt you and broke your heart. Please come home. I love you.

Yours always,

Michael

Although I'd considered it a waste of a perfectly good stamp, I'd sent him a reply to our address and mailed it from our town's post office when I made my Avon calls. I didn't want him knowing what town I was living in.