Latest / My Playful Wife — A Tender Literary Love Story / My Playful Wife — Season 1, Episode 45: After the No

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My Playful Wife — Season 1, Episode 45: After the No · My Playful Wife — A Tender Literary Love Story

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There were days I wanted to scream at you to
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just tell me what to do. I know. I felt you wanting
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it. And you didn't. You let it be mine the whole
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way down. Even when it was killing you. My Playful
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Wife. Episode 45. After the No. Written by Mia.
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She did not say no by email. She said it in person,
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because a no this large, given to a decent man
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who had offered her something real, is owed a
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face and a chair and the courtesy of being told
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to its face. So she went back across the city
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to the wide pale dusk, and I came with her this
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time, at her asking, and sat again at the edge
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while my wife declined an empire in person, with
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grace, and without a single word of apology.
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That was the thing I watched, and the thing I
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am proudest of having watched, that she did not
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grovel. There is a way of refusing a great gift
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that is really a long apology for refusing it,
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a hedging a please don't be angry, a leaving
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of the coward's door ajar in case you change
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your mind or in case the no costs you the giver's
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goodwill. Saloni did none of it. She thanked
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him. completely and sincerely, for seeing her
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work and valuing it enough to bet a fortune on
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it. She told him it was the most flattering thing
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that had happened in her working life, and that
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she meant that without irony, and then she said,
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simply and without elaborate justification, that
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she had thought about it as honestly as she knew
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how, and that it was not the right shape for
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her, that she was a maker who needed to keep
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her hands on the cloth, and that the answer was
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no. She did not over -explain. A true no does
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not need to argue its case. It only needs to
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be clearly and kindly delivered, and then to
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stop talking the way the true thing always stops
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talking once it has arrived. I had been a little
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afraid, going in, that the moment would undo
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her. That face -to -face with the man and the
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money and the future, the no would soften into
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a maybe. The way resolves so often soften when
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the thing they are refusing is sitting right
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there being generous. It did not soften, and
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I understood, watching her hold it steady, that
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this was the gift of having decided it truly,
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in her own hands, before she ever walked in the
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door. A decision made on solid ground does not
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wobble when it is tested. Only the decisions
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we have talked ourselves into, against the quiet
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of our own hands, Go soft when the pressure comes.
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She had nothing to talk herself out of because
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she had never talked herself into it. She had
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only listened. And what is listened for does
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not argue back. He took it like the decent man
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he was, which made it harder and cleaner both.
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He did not get angry. He did not. After the first
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beat of genuine surprise, try to bully or bribe
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her past it, though I could see the negotiator
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in him reach instinctively for the higher number
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and then, to his credit, set it down. He asked
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her once, honestly, whether she was sure, not
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as a tactic but as a real question, a man who
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believed in the thing he was offering checking
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that she had truly seen it. And when she said
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yes, she was sure. He sat back and looked at
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her for a moment with something that was not
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quite disappointment and not quite admiration
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but a mixture of the two, and he said the thing
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I will remember him by. I think you're making
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a mistake, he said. I want to be honest with
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you because you've been honest with me. I think
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you're turning down something most people would
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give an arm for, and I think a part of you will
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wonder about it for the rest of your life. He
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paused. And I also think it's your mistake to
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make, and that a person who knows her own shape
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that clearly is rare enough that I'd be a fool
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to think I understood it better than she does
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from the outside. So. No, then. The door stays
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open if the shape ever changes. But I won't insult
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you by pretending I think it will. He stood and
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shook her hand and shook mine. And that was the
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end of the Empire, handled by two honest people
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across a wide desk with no bitterness in it anywhere,
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which is a rarer and more dignified thing than
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any version with a villain in it would have been.
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I have noticed that we are taught to expect villains
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at exactly these moments. The stories train us
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to look for the predatory financier, the soulless
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corporation, the trap dressed as an opportunity,
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so that we can refuse with the clean energy of
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righteousness. Real life so rarely supplies the
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villain. It supplies, instead, the decent man
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with a genuine offer, the good thing that is
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simply not yours. and it asks you to refuse it
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without the fuel of anger, which is far harder,
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because you cannot push off against a wall that
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is not there. Saloni had to refuse a kindness,
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not an attack. There is no satisfaction in that,
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no drama, no clean righteous heat, only the quiet
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difficulty of saying no to something good, because
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it is not true, and meaning the thank you while
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you do it. And then we were out in the ordinary
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loud afternoon again on the pavement, the empire
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declined and behind us, and the grief arrived
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more or less on the spot, the way it does once
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the thing is irreversible and there is nothing
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left to decide. She cried a little on the pavement,
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and I held her, and we let the city flow around
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us, two people standing still in the middle of
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a moving street while my wife grieved a fortune
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she had just turned down. I want to be honest
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about that grief, because the temptation of a
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story like this is to rush past it to the relief,
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to make the no instantly weightless once it is
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made. It was not weightless. She had just closed,
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permanently, a door onto a whole other life,
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a life of reach and money and validation and
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thousands of strangers met, and the closing of
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a real door, even the right door, even a door
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you chose to close with your own hand, is a death
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of a kind, the death of a possible self, the
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woman who took the empire, who would now never
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exist. Saloni grieved her, that other self, the
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large one, the one in the duty -free, standing
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on the pavement in the afternoon. And I held
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her and did not tell her she had done the right
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thing because she knew she had done the right
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thing. And being told so would have made the
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grief feel like a failure of conviction rather
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than what it was, which was the honest price
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of a true choice paid in full on the spot without
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complaint. I think the willingness to grieve
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a good choice is one of the surest marks of a
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person who has actually grown up. The child in
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us wants the choices to be free. wants to believe
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that if we only choose rightly, we get to keep
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everything, that the good road has no toll. The
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adult knows there is always a toll, that every
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yes is a no to a hundred other lives, that to
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commit to anything at all is to mourn everything
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you did not commit to, and that the mourning
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is not a sign you chose wrongly, but simply the
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shape maturity takes when it is being honest.
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Saloni grieved on that pavement not because she
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doubted, but because she was grown enough to
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know that the right road still costs you all
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the roads you did not take. But here is the thing
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that surprised me in the days after, the thing
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I had not expected and could not have predicted,
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and that I have been turning over in the fifth
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notebook ever since. The grief was real, and
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it was sharp, and it lasted. And underneath it,
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almost immediately before the grief had even
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begun to fade, there was something else, rising,
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that I can only call relief, though it was larger
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and stranger than that word. It was the feeling
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of a held breath, finally let out. For a fortnight,
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we had both been carrying the enormous undecided
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thing, the weight of it. The way it sat on every
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conversation and every meal and every night.
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The low constant hum of a life suspended over
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a choice. And the moment the no was actually
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delivered, that weight simply lifted all at once.
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And the relief of its lifting ran alongside the
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grief. The two of them braided together. So that
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Celonie spent those first days in the strangest
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emotional weather I have ever watched her in.
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Genuinely grieving and genuinely lighter at the
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same time, mourning the empire with her eyes
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while her shoulders, independently, came down
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from around her ears for the first time in two
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weeks. I keep waiting to regret it, she said
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on the third day, and there was wonder in it.
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And the regret doesn't come. The grief comes.
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I miss the version of me who said yes. I'll probably
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always miss her a little. But regret is different.
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Regret is wishing you'd chosen otherwise, and
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I don't. Not for a second. Even while I'm grieving.
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I think that's how you know it was the true no,
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and not the frightened one. The frightened no
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would have curdled into regret by now. This one
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just sits there, sad and settled and completely
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sure. I gave up something enormous and I would
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do it again tomorrow. And both of those are true.
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And I didn't know a person could hold both at
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once until I had to. I have come to think this
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is one of the quiet competencies of a whole adult
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life. The capacity to hold two true and opposite
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feelings at the same time without forcing them
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to resolve. The young heart wants singleness.
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It wants to be simply happy or simply sad, and
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it thrashes against any state that will not pick
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one. But the real states, the grown ones, are
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almost all mixed, grief braided with relief,
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love shot through with irritation, pride and
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sorrow over the same child on the same afternoon.
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Learning to sit inside a contradiction without
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collapsing it is most of the emotional work of
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a long life, and Celonie, sitting in her grief
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and her relief without demanding that either
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one cancel the other, was doing it as gracefully
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as I have ever seen it done. And the work came
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back. That was the clearest sign, the one no
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feeling could have faked. Within a week of the
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no, The gray -green collection, the one that
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had been waiting in its long middle through the
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whole fortnight of the offer, half -made, set
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aside while the larger question consumed her,
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came back to life under her hands, and came back
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stronger, because the energy that the decision
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had been quietly eating for two weeks was suddenly
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all returned to her, poured back into the cutting
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table. And she worked those days with a focus
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and a joy. I had not seen since before the email.
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Came. It was as though the Empire had been standing
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in the doorway of her real work the whole time,
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blocking the light, and now that she had shown
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it out the light fell back onto the table and
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the making resumed, freer than before. A Truno,
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I understood, watching her cut, does not only
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cost, it also frees. It clears the doorway. It
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returns to you all the energy you were spending
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on the indecision and all the self you were holding
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in reserve in case you had to become someone
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else. And it gives you back entire to the thing
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that was actually yours all along. There is a
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folk belief that sacrifice is always a subtraction,
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that to give a thing up is simply to have less
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of it. And sometimes it is. But there is another
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kind of giving up, the kind where you surrender
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a thing that was never truly yours in order to
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be returned, whole, to the thing that is, and
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that kind is not a subtraction at all, but a
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clearing, a making room, a removal of the impressive
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clutter that was standing between you and your
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own life. Saloni had given up an empire and gotten
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herself back, and watching her cut that week,
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freer than I had seen her in a year, I could
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not honestly have said she had less. She had
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less money, less reach, less fame than the other
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road would have handed her. She also had, unmistakably,
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more of herself, and she plainly considered it
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the better trade. There was an evening, about
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a week after, when the worst of the grief had
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passed and the relief had settled into something
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steadier. and we sat at our own table in our
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own light, and I finally got to do the thing
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I had been waiting the whole long fortnight to
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do, which was to simply, uncomplicatedly, celebrate
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my wife. I want to say it properly, I said, now
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that it's done, and the grief's had its turn.
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I am so proud of you, I don't have the words
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for it. Not proud that you said no, proud of
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how you decided it. You got offered the thing
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the whole world says you're supposed to want,
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and instead of grabbing it or running from it,
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you got quiet and you listened to your own hands
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and you found out the truth about yourself and
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you acted on it, awake the whole way through,
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and you grieved what it cost and you didn't pretend
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it was free. That's the most grown -up thing
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I've ever watched a person do. I've spent two
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weeks keeping my mouth shut, so I wouldn't tip
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you, and I'm done keeping it shut. You are magnificent.
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I married a woman who knows her own shape well
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enough to turn down an empire for it, and I will
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be dining out on that privately, in my own head,
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for the rest of my life. She laughed properly,
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the first full laugh in weeks, and reached across
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the table and took my hand and said, You kept
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your mouth shut so well I almost couldn't stand
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it. There were days I wanted to scream at you.
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to just tell me what to do. I know. I felt you
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wanting it. And you didn't. You let it be mine
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the whole way down, even when it was killing
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you. She turned my hand over in hers. Do you
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understand that almost no one would have done
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that? That most people who love you cannot stop
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themselves from steering, that they help you
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toward the thing that would comfort them and
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call it love? You gave me the one thing almost
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no one gives. You gave me a decision that's actually
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entirely mine. Her thumb moved over my knuckles.
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I'd have made it either way, but I'd have made
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it carrying your weight, watching your face,
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factoring you in. You took yourself out of a
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scale so I could weigh the truth clean. That's
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not nothing. That's about the biggest thing one
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person can do for another, and you did it for
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two weeks in silence, where I'd barely even see
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it. So, thank you for the silence. It was the
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loudest love I've ever been given. We sat in
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that a while, the Empire behind us. The marriage
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demonstrably stronger for having walked straight
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through the middle of a gift -shaped test and
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come out the far side awake and together and
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more ourselves than before. I wrote it in the
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fifth notebook that night. The grief easing.
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The work resumed. The no fully behind us. After
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the no. She delivered it in person, across the
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wide desk, with grace and no apology. Didn't
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grovel. Didn't leave the coward's door ajar.
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Didn't over -explain. A true no doesn't argue
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its case. It's clearly and kindly delivered,
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and then stops talking. The buyer took it like
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the decent man he was. I think you're making
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a mistake, and a part of you will wonder for
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the rest of your life. And it's your mistake
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to make. The door stays open if your shape ever
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changes, but I won't insult you by pretending
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I think it will. No villain, cleaner and harder
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for it. The grief arrived on the pavement, immediate
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and real. She grieved the woman who took the
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empire, the possible self now dead. Closing a
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real door, even the right one, even with your
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own hand, is a death. I held her and did not
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say she'd done the right thing. She knew. Being
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told would've made the grief feel like a failure
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of conviction. The surprise. Under the grief.
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Almost at once. Relief. A held breath let out.
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The fortnight's weight lifted the instant the
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no was delivered. Genuinely grieving and genuinely
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lighter at the same time. The two braided. I
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keep waiting to regret it and the regret doesn't
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come. Grief, yes. I'll always miss the version
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who said yes. But regret is wishing you'd chosen
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otherwise, and I don't. Not for a second. That's
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how you know it was the true no. The frightened
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one would have curdled into regret by now. The
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work came back. The clearest sign within a week
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the gray -green collection roared back under
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her hands, stronger. The Empire had been standing
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in the doorway of her real work blocking the
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light. Now she'd shown it out. The light fell
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back on the table. A true no doesn't only cost.
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It frees, clears the doorway, returns all the
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energy you were spending on indecision, and all
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the self you held in reserve in case you had
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to become someone else. Narrator finally glared
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out loud. Proud not that you said no, but of
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how you decided. Got quiet. Listened to your
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own hands. Found the truth about yourself and
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acted awake. Grieved what it cost and didn't
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pretend it was free. The most grown -up thing
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I've watched a person do. Her answer. The thing
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that lands. You kept your mouth shut so well
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I almost couldn't stand it. You let it be mine
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the whole way down even when it was killing you.
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Almost no one would. Most who love you can't
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stop staring. They help you toward what would
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comfort them and call it love. You took yourself
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out of the scale. So, I could weigh the truth
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clean. Thank you for the silence. It was the
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loudest love I've ever been given. The marriage
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stronger for walking straight through the middle
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of the gift -shaped test. Awake and together.
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To be continued in episode 46, The Slightly Bigger
19:52
of My Playful Wife. If this story is staying
19:55
with you, the next episode is already waiting.
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