Guilt Wagon

I am sitting in my brand new car. I run my hand along the smooth walnut trim and smell the intoxicating smell of new leather. I push a small round button that is illuminated orange and immediately feel heat rising all around me. Heated seats, a wonderful invention indeed.

Plain and simple - this car is a guilt gift from my husband. He had an affair. He had an affair – and I get a brand new car.
Now, there are some woman that would say that the smell of new leather and walnut trim and heated seats is a damn good pay-off for putting up with a cheating husband. And then there are some that say that a car just isn’t going to cut it. I am sitting here trying to figure out which one of those women I am.

Accepting this car says that I accept he has been unfaithful. And that he has. He hasn’t done it all that long, or all that often. So he’s told me.
Maybe I need to believe what he’s told me. Inside I know that it somehow makes me feel less ashamed.
Me being ashamed? That’s an odd emotion to have. I haven’t done anything, yet, for some reason I feel as if I have.
Yes. I feel that I pushed him here, that I made this subconsciously happen.
It feels that the longer I sit here in this car, the more reasonable his explanations become.

I need to think clearly, the sweet smell of leather is clouding my thinking. I push a small square button on the steering wheel and the window slides down. A cool breeze blows in and I can hear kids laughing in the distance.
Am I being unreasonable? Am I to blame for this? I was right in being mad at him for missing the kids’ soccer games. I was right about a lot of things – just not the right things I guess.
My mind is racing – when he was late was he really with her? When he missed the kids’ games, was he with her? Was he with me, and then with her? My stomach does a flip flop and I feel sick. I shake my head.

No. I am worth more than this.

I kiss my fingertips and touch the dashboard lovingly. I slide out the key and open the door. I step out. On the corner there is a woman wheeling her baby in a dilapidated stroller. I smile. The baby is bundled up very tight to ward off the cold. Its little eyes glare at me as I approach. The mother takes a step back, as if caught off guard. I reach out my hand. She timidly reaches out hers, and takes what is in my hand.

She looks puzzled. She pushes the keys back at me.
“Oh. No – for you. Um…” I quickly turn back to high school Spanish class.
“Uh… El clave para el coche.” “Keys. For the car. Over there.” I pointed at the beautiful glistening BMW. Her eyebrows crinkled.
“No. No. I’m OK. I go.”
I stood in front of the stroller. “It has heated seats.”

As I watch a perfect stranger climb into my guilt wagon, I can’t help but smile. She needs it more than I ever could.
I need my self respect back.
“I think we’ll both make out on this deal in the end”, I think as I begin the 2 mile walk home.