On the Saturday morning I said: let’s take a walk.
The Walk, Uncompressed
The walk I described earlier was accurate in its facts and compressed in its texture. Let me give you more of the texture.
Daniel knew it was going to be a conversation before we even reached the end of the block. He has known me for thirteen years. He recognizes the specific quality of my energy when I am carrying something, the way I am slightly too careful in my movements, the way I respond to questions about small things with slightly more specificity than the questions require. He knew, and he said nothing, and we walked half a block in the quiet that was almost comfortable and then I said the thing about needing to talk about his mother.
He said okay.
I had three things written in my phone notes: the household plan, the departure date, and the communication together. I had written them on Thursday evening after I decided I was going to have the conversation on Saturday. Writing them down was not unusual for me — I am someone who makes lists before hard conversations the same way I make lists before difficult project calls. The list is not a script. It is a structure that keeps me from getting lost when the conversation starts to go somewhere unexpected.
I did not read from the notes. I said what I had written, in my own words, and it came out more clearly than some of my previous attempts had come out, because I had spent two days arranging the words before I needed to say them.