I Mocked His "Little Bells" During An Argument, Saying They Were Useless…

I Mocked His "Little Bells" During An Argument, Saying They Were Useless…
Jonah nodded politely and pulled out Felix’s chair before sitting back down himself. That, too, irritated me—his automatic courtesy, his need to play the good man even when the ground under him was clearly shifting.

Dinner unfolded the way I expected. Felix took over the conversation effortlessly, talking about donors, upcoming galas, the kind of places people important got invited to. He asked Jonah what he taught, and when Jonah said “high school math,” Felix smiled kindly, the way adults smile at children who’ve answered a question correctly.

“That’s admirable,” Felix said. “Someone has to do it.”

I laughed. Jonah did not.

I talked about my work, about how stressful but rewarding it was, about how much responsibility I carried. Felix listened like every word mattered. Jonah listened too, but in that quiet way that felt passive, like he was already used to standing slightly outside my life.

When Felix excused himself to take a call, Jonah finally spoke.

“You didn’t tell me he was coming,” he said softly.

“I just did,” I replied, taking a sip of wine. “And you survived.”

“This was supposed to be our night.”

I sighed, already tired of the conversation. “Why does everything have to be so rigid with you? It’s just dinner.”

He looked at me for a long moment, really looked, and then nodded. “Okay.”

That was it. No argument. No plea. Just that calm acceptance that I had started mistaking for weakness.

Felix returned, and the rest of the evening felt almost… triumphant. I leaned toward him when I laughed. I let my hand brush his arm. I told a story and watched his eyes stay on me, completely focused. Jonah faded into the background, paying the bill, thanking the waiter, saying nothing that might disturb the atmosphere I was enjoying so much.

On the way out, Felix hugged me again, longer this time. “Happy anniversary,” he said softly in my ear. “You deserve to be celebrated.”

Jonah stood a few steps away, keys in hand. The silver bell jingled once.

I didn’t look at him.

That night, Jonah slept on his side of the bed, as usual. But something felt different. Not cold—resolved. In the morning, he made coffee, packed his lunch, and kissed our daughter on the head before school. He told me to have a good day. His voice was calm. Steady.