ONE
Shannon
Dis·ap·point·ment
Noun.
According to the dictionary, it’s defined as sadness or displeasure caused by the nonfulfillment of one’s hopes or expectations.
Disappointment is my husband’s biggest fear. It’s also my reality.
Oh, everything looks perfect on the outside, as it often does, but behind closed doors, we’re falling apart. What’s worse, my husband refuses to acknowledge it because that would mean admitting our nonfulfillment of his expectations.
And God forbid Gregor Hartley be a disappointment, especially to himself.
Much less, a failure.
I watch my husband straighten his tie to perfection in the vanity mirror before looking down at my cotton shorts and tank top. I used to sleep in silk or satin…or nothing at all.
“Hey babe, don’t forget I have that meeting with Mark Richardson today at six-thirty, so don’t count on me for dinner.”
“It’s the fourth night this week Serafina and I have eaten without you,” I remind him gently.
Na?vely, I thought once our daughter was born, Gregor would slow down. He would spend time with us making memories, and he and I would find our way back to each other. However, all her birth accomplished was to push he and I farther apart because now I’m having to be a mother and still find the energy to be the wife I was before three a.m. feedings, spit-up stained clothes, and diaper blowouts. Not the sexy kind of wife, mind you. No, I have to have the energy for laundry, dishes, meals, etc… Gregor and I’s sex life is a thing of the distant past.
Gregor gives me the look .
“Shan, you know how important this case is. If I win this, I’ll be promoted to partner… the youngest the firm has ever had.”
Partner, partner, partner. It’s all he talks about and the bastards that he works with lord it over him like a dog waiting for his treat after every trick he performs. It’s sickening.
Ever since he started working for this firm, he’s chased the title of partner like it has the power to sustain him for eternity. At forty-two, Gregor has already been a partner in a law firm, but it wasn’t the law firm.
The firm he’s with now is the most prestigious criminal defense firm in our state. When the opportunity for him to join this firm was presented, he took it…even though it meant practically starting over. No one gets their name on the door of Whistler, Childress, Cox, and Wright. At least not without seriously proving yourself. Most give up after a year or two and move on. Gregor’s been here four years. And for four years, they’ve been gangling this carrot.
I force a smile, silently begging my heart rate slow down. Don’t pick a fight. He’s under a lot of stress. He does a lot for you. I continue to remind myself of all the things I know to be true even if I don’t feel them in my heart like I once did.
“I know. I’m very proud of you, but I’ll be glad when this trial is over. Perhaps we could take a vacation just the two of us?” I ask, abandoning my hairbrush to wrap my arms around my husband’s lean frame. He’s almost too thin these days. Between his schedule and his amount of stress, I’m not sure when he last ate a full meal.
“Vacation without little Sera?” he asks.
I hate when he calls her that.
We named her Sera fina for a reason. If he wanted to call her Sera, we should have just named her Sarah.
Quickly, I get my attitude in check, once again saying none of the things I’m actually thinking.
“I just feel like you and I could use a little time to recharge. Just think about it, okay? I miss you. I’m sure my mother wouldn’t mind watching Serafina for a few days.”
Gregor gives my cheek a chaste kiss and moves out of my embrace.
“I’ll think about it,” he says, walking out of the bathroom right as a cry rings through the baby monitor. “Speaking of, Sera’s awake. I’d grab her, but I’ve got to run,” he yells, already halfway down the stairs.
Thankfully, our house is an older design, built when master bedrooms were still on the second floor. Otherwise, I’d have to make two hundred and thirty-seven trips up and down instead of the usual fifty.
Walking into the nursery, I find my four-month-old, crying in a soggy diaper. There’s no denying that our daughter is beautiful, but I’ve never had those warm fuzzies most parents talk about. I’m an admittedly selfish person. I like time to myself, I don’t like sharing my husband’s attention, and I absolutely abhorred having to share my body.
I know all of the above are unpopular opinions.
Hell, even my patients berated me when I didn’t give the appropriate answers for how I was feeling during my pregnancy. Like I was less of a woman because I wasn’t ecstatic about throwing up every morning at four o’clock, or because I wasn’t interested in having a gender reveal party, and especially because I worked right up until my water broke. But hell, I’d gone to school for a lot of years to become a neurologist and I adore the field.
And I’m bitter as hell that I allowed my husband to convince me that I would fail as a mother if I didn’t stay home with her. Hazard of marrying an attorney, I guess. He’s impossible to win an argue against no matter how sound my logic is.
I keep hoping my mindset will change as she gets older and doesn’t depend on me so much. Occasionally, I think if Gregor and I continue to grow apart like this, it could be nice to have someone to help fill the silence in this massive house.
“Come on you, might as well get the day started,” I coo to my daughter as I pick her up out of her crib, her tears not abating at my presence. I’m positive she feels the tension in my body and can somehow tell she’s the cause for my nerves right now.
None of my friends have young kids and when Serafina was born, they slowly disappeared from my life. So, for now, it’s just Serafina and I from seven a.m. until ten p.m. most nights.
She gurgles and whines and kicks her little feet while I fumble through her diaper change. As soon as I’ve gotten it on, she begins to cry again, causing another spike in my anxiety. I’m sure she’s just hungry, but why don’t more parents talk about how fucking terrifying it is trying to keep another human alive?
Downstairs, I make her a bottle and settle in for another day of counting down until nap time only for her to wake again and start the countdown until bed time.
As I’m pulling Serafina’s lunch out of the microwave, my phone goes off. Gregor checking in like always.
“Babe,” he greets. “How are my girls?”
“Doing well. Just sitting down to lunch before nap time.” Just like every day at this time. I hate that my daughter and I have become another task to complete on Greg’s daily to-do list, but I’m thankful for the check-ins and conversation with another adult. Even if he doesn’t really want to hear about my morning as much as he wants to tell me about his.
“You won’t believe this, but Driscoll got caught nailing the district attorney, they’ve both been pulled from the case and they want me to take over,” he says excitedly over the phone.
Before Serafina was born, my girlfriends had asked me if I ever though Gregor would cheat on me. They assumed because he works such long and late hours, he’s off with someone else.
Emphatically, the answer is no.
The thing about Gregor is that he’s all about image, appearance, and reputation. My husband would never commit adultery because if he got caught, it would tarnish the name he’s built for himself. No, Gregor Hartley would rather live the rest of his days in a loveless marriage, spending all of his energy checking off the appropriate boxes before he would risk his name and image for a quick lay. I’m confident there’s no pussy on this planet my husband would risk losing a case over.
Besides, Gregor just isn’t into it much anymore. And it isn’t like I don’t offer. Hell, I’d love to have sex with my husband again. But he spends so much energy climbing the ranks at work, he’s got nothing left to give when he gets home.
Another reason Gregor would never cheat, attorneys do it all the time. Case in point: Driscoll. It wouldn’t make him special or interesting. It would only make him a disgrace.
“How do they expect you to manage your current caseload and take that one on at the same time? You’re already burning the candle at both ends, Greg.”
“I know, but I can’t turn it down. I’ll figure something out, but it looks like we won’t be getting away for a while. I’ve got to run. Give my love to Serafina, and kisses to you too, babe.”
The conversation ends but the feeling of emptiness remains.
Once Serafina finishes her lunch – I’ve been told she’s advanced for her age since she’s already sitting in a high chair, trying a few simple solids – it’s nap time.
My favorite sixty minutes of the day.
Sometimes I read. Sometimes I take a bath. Sometimes I sit and stare at the wall. Whatever I choose to do, it’s all mine and I live for it.
Which is why when my doorbell rings and wakes my napping daughter, three minutes in to my sixty minutes of freedom, I am absolutely, fucking livid.
Vowing to bring death upon whoever is on my porch, I rip the door open. The hair I brushed so long ago is now tangled around my shoulders and crusty on the ends from baby drool and I’m sure I resemble some feral woodland creature.
“You’d better have a check for a million dollars I need to sign for,” I say, not bothering to hide my ire.
The man in the delivery uniform cocks a half smile as he surveys my stone porch and copper gutters before looking past me to the large open foyer. His gaze finally coming to rest on my frazzled hair and stained shirt with a raised brow as he hands me a small box.
“With all due respect ma’am, I don’t think it’s money you’re in need of,” he yells over Serafina’s wails. The girl does not like to be ignored.
I feel the moment the insult distorts my features. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
His eyes widen as he realizes he was just a total dick. “Oh, shit. I just meant sleep. It looks like you could use a good night’s sleep. Sorry for waking the baby. If you could just sign here,” he says, thrusting his electronic notepad at me. I rip the matching pen from his hand, so tired I can barely see straight. He nailed it. I would pay a million dollars for sleep right now.
“Uh, what’s that last name?” he asks.
“Can’t you read?” I sass.
“Not that chicken scratch,” he laughs, unfazed by my comment.
I’m still pissed, but this is the first conversation I’ve had with another adult all day. It’s the first one I’ve had outside of Gregor and my mother in four days. This man doesn’t know me, but I appreciate that despite my wailing child, unhinged look, and rude demeanor, he isn’t tiptoeing around me, giving me those poor new mother eyes.
“Hartley,” I answer.
“First name?”
“Shannon.”
He types it into his machine just as Serafina doubles down on her efforts to get my attention. The man winces.
“Sorry about that!” he calls over his shoulder as he jogs down my steps to his waiting truck.
I slam the door, set the box on the stairs, and climb back up toward the nursery.
One look at Serafina and I know there will be no nap today. Closing the door behind me, I pull her out of her crib and sit on the floor, prepared to play with blocks until my eyeballs fall out of their sockets.
Instead, I wake up two hours later with her chewing on my shoestrings.
Mother of the fucking year, I grumble to myself.
How did I get here?