Chapter 29 - The Woman Who Asked
Three weeks into the course, Lena began leaving earlier on Thursdays.
Only twenty minutes.
She said she wanted time to review her notes before class.
I believed her.
Then one evening I arrived at the university to bring the folder she had forgotten and found her sitting alone in the car.
The engine was off.
Her hands rested on the steering wheel.
I knocked gently on the window.
She startled, then unlocked the door.
“Is everyone okay?”
“Everyone’s fine. You left this.”
She accepted the folder.
“Thank you.”
I waited.
Across the parking lot, students moved toward the entrance in pairs and small groups.
Lena watched them.
“Bad day?”
“No.”
“Bad class?”
“No.”
I leaned against the car beside her open door.
After a while, she said, “They keep asking me to explain things.”
“What things?”
“What it was like. With the boys. With Margaret. With you.”
My stomach tightened.
“Who?”
“A few people recognized my name. Someone found an old article.”
“Have you told the instructor?”
“Not yet.”
“Why not?”
She looked down.
“Because I’m thirty-two years old, Ethan. I should be able to handle a question.”
“You’re allowed to dislike being asked.”
“They mean well.”
“Some probably do.”
She turned the folder over in her hands.
“One woman said I must have enough experience to teach the course.”
“Did you tell her you enrolled to learn?”
Lena laughed once.
“I thought it.”
I opened my mouth.
Then stopped.
She noticed.
“What were you going to say?”
“That I could call someone.”
“I know.”
We sat quietly.
Then she took out her phone and opened an email.
She read what she typed aloud.
She wanted to participate fully in the course. She was comfortable discussing relevant professional experience when she chose. She did not want her family history treated as classroom material.
“Too much?” she asked.
“No.”
“Too formal?”
“No.”
She sent it before she could ask a third time.
The instructor replied the next morning, thanking her for explaining. Before the following session, they spoke privately.
At the start of class, the instructor reminded everyone that personal disclosures belonged to the person making them. No names were mentioned.
The questions stopped.
Mostly.
When someone forgot, Lena answered, “I’m keeping that part of my life private.”
The first time, her voice shook.
The second time, less.
At home, Noah was still waiting up some evenings.
We spoke with a child therapist, who helped us understand his worries and make departures more predictable. Lena’s class nights went on the calendar. Goodbyes stayed brief. Coming home remained ordinary.
One Thursday, he kissed her cheek and returned to his game.
May you like
She stood in the doorway a moment longer than necessary.
Then she picked up her books and left.
