33. Balancing Act Too long #4
But he sounds hurt, and knowing he’s hurt makes something in me tip farther off balance.
I rub my forehead. “Reid… I’m doing the best I can.”
“I’m not saying you’re not,” he replies, voice tight. “I just—” Another pause. “I miss you. And it feels like your job gets more of you than I do lately.”
The words land like a weight across my chest because part of me agrees—and part of me is tired of apologizing for wanting a career I worked hard to build.
“Your school gets more of you too,” I say quietly. “That’s just where we are right now.”
“Yeah,” he admits. “But shouldn’t marriage change that? Shouldn’t we be pulling closer, not drifting?”
The drift. The word hangs between us.
I close my eyes. “I don’t want us drifting.”
“Neither do I.” His exhale is rough. “But it’s happening whether we want it to or not.”
Something in my throat tightens. “So what do we do?”
“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “But I don’t want to keep feeling like I’m in competition with everything else in your life.”
That hurts. Not because he’s wrong, but because I hate that I’ve made him feel like that. Hate even more that I can’t take anything off my plate without something else collapsing.
“We’ll figure it out,” I say. “We always do.”
He hesitates. “Yeah. I hope so.”
The doubt lingers after we say goodnight.
When the call ends, I stare at the black screen, wishing I could stretch myself into every version of the life we’re trying to build—perfect wife, perfect mother, perfect employee—without breaking somewhere in the middle.
A knock on the door startles me. Mom lets herself in before I can reach it, carrying a sleeping Liam against her shoulder.
“He wanted you,” she whispers. “But I told him Mama had a long day.”
My chest folds inward. “Thanks for picking him up.”
She nods, studying my face. “Set him down, baby. He’s out cold.”
I take him from her and carry him to his room.
He doesn’t stir when I lay him in bed. His little hand curls around my finger on instinct, and my throat tightens again.
How much have I missed this week? How much did I trade today for the promotion I’m not even sure I want?
When I step back into the hallway, Mom is waiting with her arms crossed—not hostile, not judgmental, just… present.
“You’re spun too tight,” she says quietly.
“I’m fine,” I say, because it’s muscle memory to pretend I am.
She lifts one eyebrow—the you don’t fool me eyebrow. “You and Reid fighting?”
“Not fighting,” I say. “Just… stressed.”
“You’re married now,” she reminds me, voice soft. “Stress doesn’t cancel that out. It just means you both have to show up for each other even when it’s messy.”
“I am showing up,” I say, defensiveness slipping in before I can catch it.
“I know you are,” she says. “But baby… you can’t show up everywhere at once. And I think you’re trying.”
The truth of it stings. I sink onto the couch, rubbing my palms together.
She sits beside me. “Marriage takes work from both of you. Don’t carry all the weight alone.”
“I’m not trying to,” I whisper.
“I know. But you are. You always feel like you have to.” She touches my knee gently. “Reid has to meet you halfway. And you have to let him.”
My eyes blur a little, exhaustion finally cracking through the last layer I’d been holding onto. “I don’t want us to fall apart.”
“You won’t,” she says firmly. “Not if you stop trying to manage everything instead of sharing it.”
A breath shudders out of me. “We’re drifting.”
“Then pull back,” she says simply. “Not by sacrificing yourself—but by being honest about what you need. And asking what he needs too.”
Her voice steadies something inside me I didn’t realize had started to shake.
“Thanks,” I say.
She brushes my hair gently behind my ear like she used to when I was small. “I’m not saying I told you so. I’m saying… you don’t have to be the glue all the time.”
She leaves sometime after that. The apartment settles again, but the silence feels different now—less sharp, more reflective.
I wander into the kitchen, fingertips brushing the counter, the fridge handle, the stack of mail—every part of this space fought for, built from our choices, our sacrifices, our different paths merging the best they can.
I love Reid. That’s never been in question.
But tonight, sitting alone with the weight of our commitments spread unevenly across the room, I feel something new: If we don’t actively choose each other—even when life pulls in opposite directions—we will drift.
And love alone won’t pull us back. But maybe honesty will.
Maybe effort will. Maybe the fact that I’m sitting here aching, wanting to fix things instead of walking away, means we’re not broken—just overwhelmed. Still, as I look around the apartment, the truth settles with quiet certainty: We’re at a crossroads. Not dramatic. Not catastrophic. Just real.
Marriage isn’t unraveling—but it’s asking for more of us than we’ve learned how to give yet. And tomorrow, I’ll have to figure out how to reach for him without losing myself in the process.