“I don’t care who he is, no daughter of mine shacks up with anybody who isn’t her husband.” Kirk stopped pacing to address Heather, whose gaze was averted and features appropriately downcast. But we both knew, from past experience, Heather would make up her own mind. She was that much like her Daddy. She’d graduated, by a thin hair, from college with a degree in business management and now worked at a mortgage company, whose divorced owner was her new boyfriend.

The salon was quiet at that moment, with no patrons present. We’d decided to stop renting chairs to other hair stylists and keep our salon business all in the family.

“I love him, Dad,” she said in a whispery, choked, pleading voice.

He stared at her as though she was mad and I marveled anew that he wasn’t touched by the things that tore me apart. “Hey! If that man cared anything about you, he’d marry you. If you do this, you’re no daughter of mine.”

I gasped. Oh my God. “Kirk – ”

“Stay out of this, Janeece.” His gaze never left Heather’s lovely chestnut head that bowed as she quietly wept and I knew she loved her Daddy so much, this thing was agony for her. “I haven’t approved of your lifestyle for quite some time, you were raised to know better.” His fingers swiped through thick hair, then both hands dropped to rest on his hips as he stood before his daughter. “This – this I cannot accept.”

Heather wiped her eyes, stood, slung her purse strap over her shoulder and turned to leave. She glanced furtively over her shoulder at Kirk, who’d picked up the television remote and began clicking channels until he found golf, then plopped down onto the sofa, seemingly absorbed in the match. I knew better. He was more shaken than he wanted anybody to know.

I followed Heather outside and pulled her into my arms. “He’ll come around, honey,” I whispered in her ear as I hugged her. “He loves you. Give him time.”

Fresh tears choked off Heather’s reply, so she simply squeezed me back and kissed my cheek before she jumped quickly into her little green VW, a family hand-me-down, and drove away. I stuck my head back in the salon door and called to Kirk, “I’m going on home to start dinner.”

“Okay.” His eyes never left the screen. We always drove separate cars because our schedules zigzagged one another and stopped at different times. Today, Kirk would finish up later.

Toby bustled about in the kitchen when I kicked off my shoes in the den. “What’s that wonderful smell?” I called, forcing joviality far from what I felt.

“A surprise,” he replied, barely banking down the excitement in his voice.

I tiptoed to the doorway and sniffed appreciatively. “Spaghetti!” I rushed to hug him. “Oh, you wonderful guy, you!” He grinned, pleased at my response. He already had thick meaty sauce bubbling and noodles boiling. “You are so neat.” I sliced a loaf of Italian bread, spread garlic butter on it and arranged it on a pan. “And in more ways than one.”

“Thanks, Mama,” he replied modestly, wiping off the last of onion peels from the counter. “Look, why don’t you go sit down and rest. I’ll treat you tonight.”

I shot him an adoring gaze. “I’ll just take you up on that, son.” Sighing and thinking again how blessed I was to have Toby, I plopped down on the den’s navy-blue floral sofa, one plush as a baby’s favorite teddy bear. My feet ached.

But not as much as my heart. I fought back tears, replaying Heather’s impassioned appeal for her father’s understanding. Yet – I understood Kirk’s feelings because I shared some of them. I didn’t agree with her cohabiting outside marriage, not only fornicating but also setting herself up for heartache. And Kirk was basically right. If the man loved Heather, he’d marry her. But I didn’t agree with cutting Heather off from us.

I flipped on the television and tuned in a talk show, only half listening. Until the doctor being interviewed said, “these adult children of alcoholics all share a syndrome of anger and mistrust. Because they were not parented as children, their social development jelled there. Forced to parent themselves, they come up with their own special behavioral code.”

Fascinated, I turned up the volume. My Lord, that’s Kirk Crenshaw up one side and down the other.

By the end of the program, I felt a stirring of hope for Kirk. I scrounged in an end table drawer for my ever present pen and writing pad, flipped to the back and wrote down the doctor’s name, Dr. Wayne Kritsberg, and the book’s title: The Adult Children of Alcoholics Syndrome.

The next day, I bought it at Waldenbooks, took it home and read it from cover to cover. I wept, laughed and experienced goosebumps at intervals. By its end, I had the first inkling of what Kirk Crenshaw was about. If it affected me so profoundly, would it not be as revealing to my husband?

My first hurdle was getting him to read it. With his present paranoia, would I be able to lead him to help? I shrugged. I’d do my best, that’s all I could do. Somewhere along the way, I’d learned to switch mindsets when needed. I rarely thought as a wife anymore. Rather, I looked on Kirk as a friend who needed help.

Later that evening, during a relaxed moment at the dinner table, I said, “Kirk, I heard the most interesting theory about adults from dysfunctional alcoholic homes – such as yours was. It was on a talk show. I went out and bought the book and read it.” I sipped my coffee casually while my heart did crazy tapdances. “Interesting.” I said, studying the bottom of my cup while slowly swirling the dark amber liquid. “Very interesting.”

When I looked up, he watched me with empty eyes. The weight of responsibility was heavy – this might be the only chance Kirk would have. I went for the kill.

“You ought to read it. I think you’d discover some things about yourself and your family you’ve never suspected.”

He didn’t blink. I yawned and settled back in my chair, a calculated picture of levity. “If you decide you want to read – ”

“I don’t want to read any self-analyzing book.” He rose and his leave-taking was as indifferent as his words.

My heart thudded to a new low. Hope for any meeting of minds fizzled for me in that moment. I would continue to fulfill my promise to the Almighty by living each day as though it were my last while preparing for many tomorrows. I’d also treat Kirk with unconditional courtesy and love until he’d beaten alcohol completely and could stand alone. That was almost funny...Kirk, the Superman, depending on me, who, in his estimation, couldn’t think my way out of a paper bag. Only thing was, during my spiritual meditation, Kirk’s emotional frailty had revealed itself. At this point, he’d rather die than admit it, but Kirk needed me.

I stood and began clearing the table. Perhaps, a sudden thought struck me, that’s what he fears most. I grew still as an atrest heartbeat, mulling it over. I shook my head. Nah.

“Anything wrong, Mama?” Toby hovered at my elbow, all concern.

“Everything’s fine,” I trilled, reaching to kiss his cheek.

He didn’t look convinced. “Y’sure?”

“Yep. But if you want to cheer me up, grab that casserole dish and scour it quickly for me so I won’t mess up my acrylic nails.”

“Okay.” He happily complied and we worked companionably cleaning up while Dawn did her disappearing act. I wouldn’t scold her tonight. I’d rather busy myself and perhaps keep disappointment at arms’ length.

I reminded myself to let go of Kirk. I reminded myself I was responsible only for what I could do. I reminded myself I was no less a person because Kirk rejected me.

I reminded myself that soon, if nothing changed, I would leave. I would free Kirk and somehow, with God’s help, I would make a new life for my children and me.

It came unexpectedly, with no drumrolls, on a rainy Sunday afternoon. I rested in my tiny reading room, an upstairs nook I’d claimed and decorated with pastels, a small navy-blue sectional and floor to ceiling library shelves. Beautiful smoky beveled wall mirrors and bursts of greenery opened and vitalized the area. Toby was visiting a neighbor pal and Dawn was still at Trish and Gene’s so the house was quiet as I began a Pat Conroy novel. The only sound was a golf commentator’s voice drifting up from the downstairs television, where Kirk lounged. He rarely sought me out anymore. Hadn’t for a long, long time.

So, when he sauntered into my lair, I was mildly surprised. He stopped, scratched his head and gazed at my stuffed bookshelves. “Uh, where’s that book you were telling me about?” he asked.

My heart leaped, but I made myself rise almost indolently. “Up here.” I moved to a shelf and extracted it. He took it from me and left the room as uneventfully as he’d entered. I resumed my reading, telling myself not to get too excited. Kirk was entirely too kaleidoscopic to second-guess.

Later that afternoon, I drove to pick up Dawn, leaving Kirk sprawled on the sofa, book in hand. Usually, he dozed but not today. I visited with Trish a few minutes then left. Back at the house, Kirk now lounged in the La-Z-Boy, eyes riveted to the book.

I began to prepare an early dinner. Dawn, glad to be home, helped. In moments of camaraderie, she could be incredibly sweet. We peeled and diced potatoes to boil. I taught her to dip chicken in a buttermilk and egg mixture, roll it in flour, salt and pepper and place it in a skillet of sizzling oil. Toby arrived and pitched in, doing the mashed potatoes in his inimitable way, lots of mayo, butter and milk, then battering it all into whipped cream consistency.

“Neecy,” Kirk nudged my arm with his elbow and I turned from the stove, leaving Dawn turning a drumstick. “Listen to this – ” He read me a long passage in an incredulous voice, then peered at me from eyes no longer vacant but astonished. They made me think of a person born blind, who, by some miracle, suddenly sees and is amazed at how different reality is from their imagined world.

“There’s a reason for my – our family’s dysfunctionalism. We had no parenting. From the time I was twelve, I had to buy my own clothes. I had to make my own way. Nobody took care of me. That’s why I can’t trust others for – anything. God – ” He smacked a palm to his forehead, still gazing at the pages, “all that misery. All that anger comes from that helplessness and – ” He trailed off, already into another passage.

“Makes sense,” I said, encouraging his openness and checking on Dawn’s progress with the marvelous smelling chicken. “Good job,” I commented on the perfectly arranged, golden browned pieces. Her eyes did their little oh, Mama roll even as she blushed with pleasure.

“Listen to this.” Kirk still shadowed me. I relaxed then, knowing he’d follow me as I moved about – icing glasses and pouring tea – to read highlighted text to me. The book remained next to his plate that evening as he ate.

I said a silent prayer of thanks. Regardless of how our marriage went, Kirk could now get help for the crippling syndrome that besets adult children from alcoholic homes. One where rage is a roaring tornado that destroys everything in its path. Maybe he would discover a new, better Kirk than ever before.

It was revealing to me that I loved Kirk in a new way. Now, as a friend. Unconditionally. Sad, I thought, that to survive Kirk’s coldness, I’d had to smother romantic love. I couldn’t have survived with it burning in me.

I caught Kirk watching me across the table, a strange look in his eyes. The distance he’d wedged between us made it impossible to read him anymore. So I smiled at him as I would at a good friend. He gazed so intently that I instinctively grabbed a napkin to blot my chin, thinking I had dribbled gravy. His brief, answering smile held a tiny glimmer of warmth.

Not much. But then, a half a loaf wasn’t.

At one point in time, I’d thought I couldn’t live without Kirk. Now I knew that I could. He’d not truly been with me for years now. For whatever reasons, Kirk had not loved me for a long, long time. That fact no longer pierced me as it once had. It just made me incredibly sad.

Strangely, Kirk still sought sex with me. Our marriage bed gave us a sanctuary where we escaped the stifling reality of where we’d come. For brief moments, we joined physically, silently pleasured one another, then Kirk went back inside himself, leaving me bereft and keenly aware that our former intimacy was gone. Yet, Kirk had supported me financially. He’d given me time to prepare myself to stand alone.

Tonight, across the table from him, my smile turned genuine and my eyes misted with gratitude as we gazed at one another. I realized I could now, finally, set him free.

“Neecy,” Callie paced my living room floor, “our class of 1960 had one hundred twenty graduates. The response to our thirty-year Chapowee Class reunion questionnaire is a measly seventy.” She threw up her hands. “Ridiculous!”

“Give it time, Cal,” I soothed her. She’d worked hard on the invitation letter, one I should have helped with but was too engrossed in my present marital crisis. “There’re still two weeks until the deadline.”

“Neecy,” Cal stopped pacing and grew stock-still, peering at me. “You serious about asking Kirk for a divorce?”

I released a long shuddering sigh, momentarily regretting my divulgence. “Yes, I am, Cal. Kirk’s hung in there with me far too long – being as how he hasn’t loved me for ages. I owe him his freedom. Maybe he has someone he would be happier with.”

Cal’s dark eyebrows winged toward the ceiling. “Whatever happened to ‘thou shalt not commit adultery’?”

I shrugged. “It’s no sin to divorce. The other – well, I don’t intend to indulge. I’ve kept Kirk leashed to me long enough. He’s a good man. We just – don’t blend anymore, y’know?” It still hurt to say those words.

“Could’a fooled me.” Callie’s gaze narrowed, narrowed.... “You aren’t – I mean, you don’t have somebody else tucked away, do you, Neecy?” I heard a shrill note of fear in her question.

Laughter burst from me. “Lord, no. I’ve never wanted another man. Only Kirk. But I can’t have him.” I was astonished when a lump tried to centralize in my chest. I thought I’d exorcised all of those feelings long ago. “So – ” I took a deep breath and flashed an over bright smile, “I’ve accepted reality. But I simply can’t ask Kirk before the reunion. And Heather’s wedding. Y’know? I don’t want to spoil either.”

“Yeah. He would probably be too upset to enjoy them.”

“No. I mean me. It would spoil them for me. Not Kirk.” I gazed sadly at Cal. “I doubt he’d bat an eye. Nope. I’ll wait till after then.”

Cal yawned hugely, stretched like a cat kept still too long, then slid her bare feet into slippers. “I’m outta here, Neecy. You done poured cold water on this party.” She swooped down to kiss my cheek. “See ya later.”

What I didn’t tell Cal was that I suspected Kirk’s relief to rid himself of me would be overwhelming.

Until after the two events, I didn’t want to know.