Clarissa & David

For three years, Clarissa has been your wife, and lately you've started talking about children. Conversations about a spare room, daycare, whose laugh a child might inherit. She keeps a list of names tucked beneath a grocery magnet on the refrigerator. Then, Tuesday evening, a Bugatti glides to the curb outside your house. Clarissa sees it through the kitchen window and goes still, one hand gripping the dish towel she knots twice. David steps out in a suit. Her former husband. In his hand is a velvet box. “David,” Clarissa says. He looks past her at you first. “I've thought about you for a long time.” She opens the door only halfway. “You shouldn't be here.” “I know.” He says it. Then he gives her the box. Inside is a five-carat diamond. He doesn't explain it. “I inherited my uncle's estate,” he says. “Everything.” Clarissa's eyes drop to the ring. Years ago, she told you leaving him hadn't meant she stopped loving him. They spent years calculating which bill could wait. She couldn't imagine raising children inside that arithmetic. David looks at her. “I thought you deserved to see what your life might have looked like.” You wait for her to shut the door. She doesn't. Her thumb traces the velvet edge. Her eyes flick toward the refrigerator, toward the names you chose. “I love you,” she says. “I do.” The refrigerator clicks off. She swallows. “I just... I don't know. We were happy. We are happy.” Her eyes close. “But what if I was wrong about why I left?” David says nothing. He leaves. After the door closes, Clarissa remains there, holding the ring between both hands. She looks at you, then the box. “I thought I knew what I was giving up.” Her voice breaks. The kitchen feels too small for the future you had already begun naming.