32. Reality Sets In Too Long #2
Today they remind me that nothing I juggle is optional. I don’t get to choose between being a mom and being a wife and being an employee. I have to be all of it, all the time, even when my body wants to collapse. Around four, my phone buzzes. It’s Reid again.
Reid: How’s he doing?
I exhale and type back.
Sleeping. Fever’s still up. I’m working from home until he settles.
It takes a minute for him to reply.
Reid: I’m sorry you’re dealing with this alone. I hate it.
I stare at that message longer than I should. I know what he means. I know he’s trying. But the word “alone” pokes a tired part of me I’ve been avoiding. I type slowly.
I’m okay. Just tired.
Reid: Yeah. Same here.
I set the phone down. Nothing about that exchange feels wrong. It just feels thin, stretched, worn like fabric that used to be strong and now gives too easily.
Marriage wasn’t supposed to feel like an echo of long-distance dating, but that’s what we’ve slipped back into—careful messages, half conversations, emotional checkpoints we rush through so we can get back to whatever crisis needs our attention next.
By early evening, Liam wakes again. He curls against me on the couch, whiny and clingy, and I hold him while answering two more emails with one hand. When he finally settles with a movie, I grab a bottle of water and sink into the armchair across from him.
The apartment is quiet except for the noise from the TV. It should feel peaceful. Instead, it feels heavy, like the space is waiting for something to break the silence. I don’t want it to be me. My phone buzzes.
Reid: Sorry for disappearing. Study group ran late.
I answer quickly because that’s what a supportive spouse does.
It’s okay. How’s studying going?
Reid: Honestly? Brutal. This exam is going to wipe me out.
I swallow around a knot of sympathy and frustration.
You’ll pass. You always do.
He doesn’t answer right away. When his message finally comes in, it’s shorter.
Reid: I hope so.
I put my phone face down on the coffee table. I hate the distance in his tone almost as much as I hate that I don’t have the capacity to bridge it tonight. I want to be patient. I want to be understanding. But exhaustion makes everything sharper, and I feel like I’m carrying both our worlds today.
Liam starts coughing again, and I’m off the couch before the sound fully registers.
I check his temperature, adjust his blankets, and hold him until he relaxes.
His small hand curls into my shirt. My chest tightens with love and fatigue that sit side by side in ways I still haven’t learned how to hold evenly.
Once he’s calm, I grab my laptop to finish the last task I owe Eric. I stare at the screen for a full minute before admitting mentally that I’m functioning at half speed. Every solution takes twice as long to process. Every decision feels heavier than it should.
I send the update anyway because work doesn’t pause for sick toddlers or exhausted wives. An hour later, Reid calls. I let it ring twice before answering, mostly because I need a breath before I can sound like myself.
“Hey,” he says. His voice is soft, tired, scraped from overuse.
“Hi,” I say, lowering my voice so I don’t wake Liam. “Rough day?”
“You could say that. Practice ran late, and I’m behind on a group assignment. How’s Liam?”
“Still warm. He’s sleeping now.”
There’s a pause. A long one.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
The question hits something I didn’t realize was sore.
“I’m fine,” I say. Then, because he deserves honesty, I add, “Just overwhelmed.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”
We sit in that silence for a moment—both tired, both worn, both trying not to spill everything we’re carrying. He tells me more about his exam. I tell him a little about the work problems.
Neither of us mentions the fear under the surface: how quickly life is stacking responsibilities on our backs, how hard it is to hold each other steady when we’re barely balancing ourselves.
“I wish I could be there,” he says quietly.
“I know.” I rub my forehead. “But wishing doesn’t change anything.”
He flinches at that. I hear it in the silence.
“I didn’t mean it like—” I start.
“No,” he cuts in softly. “You’re right.”
The exhaustion between us spreads like fog.
We keep the call short. He needs to study.
I need to sleep. Neither of us says what we’re really thinking—that marriage wasn’t supposed to feel like more distance, more pressure, more nights spent on opposite ends of our responsibilities. But it does. Tonight it does.
When we hang up, the apartment feels too quiet again. I watch the light on my phone fade and think about promises. About commitment. About the version of marriage I imagined and the version we’re living right now. Liam stirs again. I go to him automatically.
I settle beside him, hand resting lightly on his back, feeling every breath he takes. His needs are simple: comfort, presence, reassurance. I wish adulthood made needs that easy to identify. I wish marriage did too.
When he finally settles again, I stand in the dim hallway and let the truth land—the middle of our marriage isn’t going to be defined by big fights or big failures.
It’s going to be defined by the small stresses that build slowly, the exhaustion that softens the edges of our patience, the responsibilities that multiply overnight.
And right now, all of that is catching up to us faster than either of us planned. I walk back into the living room, pick up my phone, and stare at our message thread. Nothing is wrong exactly. But nothing feels light anymore. And that’s the part that scares me.
By the time Liam finally falls asleep—warm, soft, curled on his side with his mouth slightly open—I’m operating on the kind of exhaustion that feels bone-deep and humming. I lower the blanket over him quietly, fingers lingering on the fabric even after it’s settled.
The apartment is dim except for the hallway light, and everything feels still in that deceptive way where stillness doesn’t mean peace.
Just… pause. I straighten slowly, my back cracking in two places, and step out of the room on the edges of my feet.
I exhale when the door clicks shut. The living room is a quiet disaster.
Toys everywhere. My laptop open on the couch with three half-written emails waiting in the drafts folder. A mug near the sink with cold tea at the bottom. A folded laundry basket I haven’t touched in two days.
The air feels thick with everything I haven’t done, everything I need to do tomorrow, everything I won’t have time for no matter how early I wake up.
I sink onto the couch, elbows on my knees, head in my hands.
This—this moment right here—is the first time all day I’ve stopped moving long enough to realize how tired I am. My phone buzzes.
Reid How’s Liam? Better?
I stare at the message for a long second before typing.
Still feverish. Finally asleep.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.
Reid: I’m sorry I missed your call earlier. I didn’t even hear it. We were doing mock interviews.
I rub my forehead with the heel of my hand. He didn’t do anything wrong, but the timing—the timing feels like one more missed connection in a whole string of them.
It’s fine. Today just sucked.