Hindenburg

"Mary."

Mary's stomach clenched at the resignation in Henry's voice. She watched him set his case on the bed and tried to muster some false cheer to ease her nerves. "You're back."

"Did you think I wouldn't be?"

After a long sleepless night haunted by her uncertainty over what she wanted, Mary didn't know what to think. "I wondered. Where did you go?"

"My father's, to lick my wounds. I owe you an apology, Mary. I shouldn't have just left like that."

"I'm sorry you felt you had no other choice."

They stared at one another from their separate corners, and Mary had the distinct feeling neither wanted to be the first to break the uneasy tension. She studied her husband, perhaps for the first time in years. He looked tired, and she was ashamed to admit even to herself that she was likely the cause. He sighed heavily. "I realized while I was away that we can't keep going on like this. We need to get everything out on the table."

Even though she'd expected it, Mary flinched. "I thought we had."

"We've argued in circles over and over again. Nothing's changed."

Mary scowled at the exasperation in his voice. "I don't know what to change, Henry, because I don't know what you want."

He ran his hands through his hair and started pacing. "I want to have an opinion on our future. I want us to get away from this estate. I want what we used to have. I want my wife back." He stared at her, through her. The desperation in his gaze made her uncomfortable.

"I haven't gone anywhere!"

"I hardly recognize you anymore from the woman I married. She was challenging and dynamic and completely different from anyone I'd ever known. You've become...hard. Unyielding. You shut me out years ago." He paused and shook his head. "Maybe you never let me in in the first place."

Mary was stunned and deeply wounded. Instantly she went on the defensive. "Well, maybe that's all I was to you then – a challenge. You wanted me because I wasn't easy, and when you got me, you stopped trying."

"Please give me some credit, Mary," he huffed. "I tried like you wouldn't believe. I pleaded with you to share the burden of this estate with me. I tried desperately to get you to open up to me; to trust me to shoulder the weight of the world you seem to carry on your shoulders. I wanted so badly to be your partner in all of this, but I couldn't even put a dent in that wall you have up around yourself."

"You didn't want a partner, you wanted a wife. "

"No, Mary. I would have loved a partner, but you never bothered to let me in because you already had one."

That threw her. "What? What are you-" And then the penny dropped and she threw her hands up in sheer frustration. "Please tell me you are not dragging Tom into this again. I don't know how else to convince you that there has never been anything between us! Frankly I'm sick of defending myself over this." She watched a parade of emotions cross his face and end on a sad resignation. "I believe you. But let me ask you one thing: why do you love me?"

"What?" she spluttered, unable to believe how quickly things had spiralled. "What kind of question is that? I love you because you're my husband."

"It's supposed to be the other way around," he remarked quietly.

"Henry, enough of this. I love you because... because..." She grasped desperately at straws to put into words what she felt, all the while teetering on the edge of a chasm. He laughed softly, to himself. "That's what I thought."

Mary was at a loss. None of this was going as she had planned. "Henry, you can't just run off for a few days and then come back and drop all of this on me. Please just give me a moment to catch my breath!"

"None of this is new, Mary. It's been years." Henry sighed. "I've invested in the racing team I told you about, and they're going on tour next week. I'm going with them."

"You want to leave now? Henry, this is too important – we need to fix this."

"Important?" Henry scoffed. "Mary, on the list of things important to you, I don't crack the top ten."

Mary reared back. "How can you say that? You can't possibly think that's true." She searched his face for any hint of remorse; any sign he'd only said it to hurt her. And she found hurt there, but it was his own pain. Guilt welled up in her hard and fast. "How long have you felt this way?"

"A long time."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"I did. Many times."

"I-" The last time she had felt anything close to this was when Edith had confronted her all those years ago about Marigold. She'd felt wretched then, but it hardly compared to the twisting shame burning in her gut now. "I'm sorry. Maybe some time apart would be a good idea – space to clear our heads and figure things out. We can talk again when you get back."

He stared at her for a long moment. "I'm not coming back, Mary."

For a second she couldn't breathe. All the air had been sucked from her body. No matter how distant they'd become with each other, or her niggling doubts about what she actually wanted, Mary had genuinely not expected this. Finally she found her voice. "Of course you are."

"No, I'm not. I'm tired. I don't want to do this anymore."

"I...see." She didn't hear much of what he said after that. Visions of Susan and Shrimpy and their decades of hatred flashed through her mind like a film. That was the kind of marriage that ended. Marriage didn't end because of simple miscommunication.

"Mary?"

She was jolted back into the present and realized Henry had picked up his suitcase once again. Indignation flared. "You're leaving now? Henry, I need time to process this! What am I supposed to tell everyone? What about the children?"

"I'm sorry, Mary. I'll call you soon to discuss speaking with the boys."

"Henry!" A week ago they'd been fine, and now her husband was walking out the door? This wasn't her plan – they were supposed to talk things out and reconcile and everything would be fine. "Henry, wait," she said again, firmly. She could fix this.

But he didn't wait. Even as he blinked back tears, he didn't wait.

Mary sank onto the edge of the bed, reeling, wondering what the hell had just happened.