32. Reality Sets In Too Long
REALITY SETS IN TOO LONG
Balancing would be easier if anything in my life stayed still for more than five minutes.
I wake up before my alarm because Liam is coughing again—tight, rattling, the kind that tells me daycare is going to call by noon even if I send him.
My head is heavy, the kind of tired that clings behind my eyes.
I check my phone out of habit. Reid sent a text at three in the morning.
Still studying. I love you. Goodnight—well, good morning.
He’s asleep now. He won’t see whatever reply I send until after his lab, maybe after practice, maybe hours from now.
I tuck the phone under my pillow and sit up slowly.
Married life wasn’t supposed to make the distance feel worse, but somehow it does.
It adds weight to every missed call, every late response, every weekend we don’t get. Down the hall, Liam’s door is cracked. I push it open and find him sitting up, hair sticking out like he fought sleep all night. His cheeks are warm. His hands reach for me immediately.
“Mama,” he murmurs.
That one word pulls every thread of worry tight.
“Yeah,” I say, lifting him. “I’ve got you.”
By the time I get him medicated, dressed, and settled on the couch with a cartoon, the clock is already running too fast. I grab my laptop bag, my work badge, his daycare folder, and a half-eaten granola bar I pretend counts as breakfast.
My reflection in the microwave door looks like someone who needs six hours of sleep and a miracle.
At drop-off, his teacher gives me the cautious smile I’ve come to recognize: We’ll try, but don’t get your hopes up.
I thank her anyway, kiss Liam’s forehead, and leave before I can second-guess the decision.
Traffic is its usual beast, and by the time I get to Nexus Dynamics, I’m ten minutes late.
Not terrible. Not great. I slip into my seat as quietly as possible, hoping Eric won’t?—
“Morning,” he says from behind me. Not annoyed. Just observant.
“Rough start,” I say.
He nods once—empathetic, efficient. “We’ve got a meeting in fifteen. I need you in it if you can.”
“I’ll be there.”
I always say yes. Even when I’m tired. Even when I’m stretched thin. Even when the invisible scale in my chest tips so unevenly between parenting and marriage and work that I can feel the imbalance in my bones.
The morning blurs into meetings, troubleshooting, Slack messages, and the kind of problem-solving that requires me to be fully present.
I do it. I’m good at it. That part of my life makes sense.
But halfway through a workflow review, my phone vibrates.
Daycare. Of course. I excuse myself and step into the hall before answering.
“Hi, Amelia. Liam’s running a fever. He’s been asking for you.”
The guilt hits instantly. It always does.
“I’m on my way.”
I gather my things, apologize to Eric on the way out. He waves me off, understanding but also clearly aware this is one more crack in a week full of them. On the drive to daycare, my phone buzzes.
Reid: Sorry I missed your call earlier. Everything okay?
I type with one thumb while balancing a turn.
Heading to get Liam. Sick again.
His response takes a while.
Reid: I’m sorry. I wish I could help.
Wish. Not will. Not can. Just wish. It’s not his fault. He’s drowning in school, in commitments that existed long before the idea of marriage started sitting on both our shoulders. But the distance between us feels sharper today, like it’s no longer just geography—it’s the gap between our lives.
When I reach daycare, Liam melts into me like he’s been holding himself together until I arrived. He buries his face in my neck, small arms tight. Suddenly nothing else matters—no meetings, no deadlines, no unreturned messages. Just him.
At home, after medicine and snuggles and settling him into bed, I finally sink onto the couch.
My laptop sits open across from me, a reminder that I’m behind on everything.
Behind at work. Behind in marriage. Behind in whatever version of adulthood I’m supposed to be mastering.
I check my phone again. No new messages.
Marriage is a balance, everyone said. You compromise. You communicate. You adapt. But no one warned me how much holding there’d be—holding responsibilities, holding emotions, holding space for a future I can’t see clearly yet.
And while I love Reid deeply, completely, the weight of everything we’re carrying feels heavier now that we’re married. Not because he’s failing me, not because I’m failing him, but because life is starting to demand choices we can’t make halfway anymore.
The beginning of our marriage feels nothing like endings—just the realization that we’re standing on two different slopes, trying to keep from sliding too far in opposite directions. And balance—real, sustainable balance—looks farther away than I want to admit.
I sit there longer than I mean to, elbows on my knees, hands in my hair. The apartment is quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge and Liam’s soft breathing through the baby monitor. The quiet should feel peaceful, but instead it feels like the pause before a storm.
Not dramatic—just the slow build of everything I’ve been trying to outrun.
I force myself to stand and walk into the kitchen.
The sink is full again. I rinse bottles and sippy cups and push aside the stack of mail I’ve been meaning to sort for two weeks.
Every task feels like it takes twice the effort it used to.
Maybe because marriage didn’t remove any weight from my shoulders—it added a layer of expectation. A sense that I should be doing all of this better because now I’m somebody’s wife.
I check my phone again. Still nothing from Reid. I remind myself he’s probably in class or practice or staring at another problem set until his brain shuts down. None of this is malicious. None of this is him choosing anything over me. But life doesn’t care about intentions—it cares about impact.
On autopilot, I start a load of laundry. Liam’s blankets, my work blouses, Reid’s hoodie he left last visit that still smells like him. I press my face into it before tossing it in. It’s ridiculous, but for a second, it calms me.
By late afternoon, Liam wakes from his nap groggy and clingy.
I carry him to the couch and hold him while he rests his cheek on my chest. His small fingers grip the fabric of my shirt like he’s anchoring himself.
I rub his back in slow circles and feel something in my chest loosen and tighten at the same time.
This is the part people forget to mention about being a young mom—that your heart stretches so far for your child that sometimes you forget you’re supposed to keep space for yourself too.
When he finally drifts back to sleep, I open my laptop and try to make progress on work tasks. I get through two emails before my brain shuts down. I close the lid and lean back, staring at the ceiling. The heaviness behind my eyes settles deeper. A notification buzzes on my phone.
Hazel: You okay? Haven’t heard from you today.
I stare at the text for a while before replying.
Long day. Nothing terrible. Just… long.
Her response is immediate.
Hazel: You need anything?
No, I type. Just a clone of myself. Hazel sends back ten laughing emojis and a threat to break into my apartment and force vitamins down my throat.
It makes me smile, but it also highlights how thin I’m stretched.
I keep telling everyone I’m fine, but fine is starting to feel like a coat that doesn’t fit anymore.
Another hour passes. Still no message from Reid.
I feel stupid checking this often, but marriage is supposed to make you feel more connected—not like you’re pinning hopes on tiny screen notifications.
I breathe through the frustration and remind myself that love is not measured in text frequency. But effort is.
I grab my planner, the one that has become both lifeline and burden. I flip through pages filled with colored blocks: work, daycare, deadlines, visits, bills. Each box is a reminder that my life is running at a pace I can barely match.
Halfway down next week’s schedule, I see a note Reid wrote in the margin months ago during a visit.
You’ve got this. I love you.
My throat tightens. I close the planner before the guilt hits too hard. By evening, Liam wakes again crying, fever rising. I spend the next hour rocking him, whispering to him, kissing his hair while the Tylenol kicks in. My arms ache, but I don’t put him down. Not tonight.
When he finally settles in my lap, warm and heavy, I look at the dark living room around us.
The quiet feels different now—not empty, just honest. This is the part of marriage no one posts about.
The nights when love is still real but everything else feels hard.
I kiss Liam’s forehead and rest my cheek against his hair.
“We’re okay,” I whisper, more to myself than to him. “We’re figuring it out.”
But some days—like today—it feels like figuring it out means trying to hold the whole world together with hands that never stop shaking. Liam sleeps for most of the afternoon, which lets me catch up on work from the couch, but it doesn’t feel like catching up. It feels like triage.
I answer messages, clear flagged tasks, and move a few deadlines, but the weight in my chest doesn’t ease.
Every notification reminds me that I missed half the day.
Every reply from someone on my team reminds me that I’m lagging behind a schedule that doesn’t care that my son is sick or that my husband is drowning in exams.
Adult life doesn’t offer pause buttons; it only offers choices, and none of them feel kind.
I check on Liam between tasks. His breathing is easier, but his cheeks are flushed and his curls stick to his forehead.
I smooth his hair back and sit with him for a minute.
Moments like this should center me. Sometimes they do.