Chapter Two
Wendy
I guess it started around a year ago.
Slowly. So slow that I barely even noticed, like the frog in the pot, simmering as the temperature of the water climbs, and then it's too late.
Atlas would stay late to finish priority jobs at the shop. Just one night, then one whole week, then I blink and a month has passed without him at the dinner table.
Life moves so fast with kids.
One month turns into two, then three, then four.
Now, he's completely missing Liam's basketball games, Noah's art showcases, family movie nights, and date nights.
I make excuses to the boys and tell them to understand. I tell them that this is all normal, even though a year ago it wasn't.
A year ago, their father was a completely different man.
I tell myself that I should be more understanding of the fact that my husband works so hard to provide for his family.
That was the agreement—he would work, I would take care of the kids, the house, the bills, and keep our lives in order.
This lifestyle was a luxury that many were not afforded. Atlas had to work longer hours, stay late, and take those weekend jobs with Trace to support us and pay our bills.
The guilt eats at me that I'm never doing enough, and that Atlas has to do too much.
All I am is just a stay-at-home mom.
Why should I ever complain?
Even though I'm the one who manages our bills and makes sure they are paid on time, reorganizing the budget when little financial bombs drop in.
I'm the one who cleans our house from top to bottom—mopping up muddy sneaker and boot prints from our wood floors, scrubbing the toilets, cleaning the stove, the never-ending dusting and sweeping, and dodging Legos and tripping over basketballs.
I vacuum the carpets, make the beds, do the dishes and cook all of our meals.
When something breaks around the house, or we need an appliance replaced, I'm the one on the phone with the repairman.
I plan the kids' birthday parties—buying their gifts, sending out the invitations, taking note of the RSVPs, preparing the food, and baking the themed cakes.
I keep everyone's lives in order, scheduling appointments for both boys that don't conflict with their other activities—Liam's basketball practices and games, Noah's art lessons and showcases. I’m the one calling their pediatrician for their physicals, the dermatologist for Noah's eczema, and the orthodontist for Liam's braces.
I do the school drop-off and pick-up every day. I'm designated Team Mom for Liam, bringing snacks for all the boys on his team.
I'm the room parent for Noah's classroom, organizing their holiday parties and chaperoning field trips. I attend every parent-teacher conference and PTA meeting.
And the sheer amount of laundry for four people, including stinky and sweaty basketball clothes, boy socks, and Atlas's dirty mechanics' overalls.
Buying, planning, and cooking the meals for four people—including an always-hungry six-foot-five bear of a man and his thirteen-year-old counterpart.
Every day after school, I’m helping the boys with their homework and projects. I’m making sure that their book bags are packed for school. I’m nagging Liam to wash his face, making sure Noah uses the right soap that won’t flare up his eczema.
When Liam and Noah get annoyed with each other, as boys often do, I’m the bad guy, mediating arguments and disciplining them when necessary.
And I do all of this with a smile on my face because I love my husband and my children more than anything.
I don't regret any of them for a single second, but I'm supposed to be a Super Mom, so why do I feel like a failure?
If I don't do actual work, then why am I exhausted at the end of every night?
Why do I become so overwhelmed sometimes that I have to lock myself in the pantry just to have a few moments to myself to cry?
Why did I have to lock myself in the bathroom just to get away from the kids asking me for help, even though their dad was in the garage and perfectly capable of helping them?
Why do I no longer feel like a person?
Where did I go?
Not mom, not Mrs. Durant—Wendy.
Wendy, who liked to dance, was good at quick math and enjoyed crocheting because it gave her hands something to do.
When was the last time I even crocheted something? Or went out dancing with Taylor?
When was the last time I did anything just for me?
When I was sixteen, I knew it in my bones that I wanted to marry Atlas and have a family with him.
I wanted to raise our family, and, if we were lucky, turn into Diane and Emmett, who have been happily married for forty years and are still head over heels in love.
When I got pregnant, we made some adjustments, and it was fine. I genuinely loved being home with Liam.
We lived with Diane and Emmett for the first year, so that Diane could help me with the baby. I learned a great deal about juggling tasks from her—she truly had it all together and was incredibly helpful in building my confidence as a new mom.
I promised myself I would never become my mother. I would never lay a hand on my children. I would take a complete interest in their hobbies—whatever they were—and accept their choices while being there to catch them when they stumble. I would correct them without making them feel small.
I would never do what my parents did to me.
For a while, everything was perfect—messy and exhausting, but perfect.
Atlas would come home from work every day, kiss me sweetly, and sweep up Liam in his arms.
Then we moved into our first apartment, where we stayed for a couple of years while we saved money.
Our house was built, and life just continued on, making me feel like I was living in a dream.
Then came Noah with more chaos, more love, more everything.
I would sit back during our family dinners and just bask in the gratitude I felt—my loving husband, my beautiful boys, a bank account that remained full, a fridge full of food, great family and friends.
I like to cling to the memories of bringing Liam and Noah to the shop for lunch when they were younger.
Liam would walk in wide-eyed, calling out loudly for his daddy. Noah, strapped to my chest, would blink his little baby eyes and take in everything.
I would beam with pride at my big bear of a husband, in his blue overalls and boots, and Atlas's eyes would light up when he saw us.
"There's my girl," Atlas says, kissing me like he hasn't seen me in years, before dropping a kiss to Noah's head and sweeping up Liam in his big tattooed arms.
Atlas started getting tattooed as soon as he could, his best friend Trace's brother owning a shop in town. The newest addition on his bicep was Noah's name and date of birth in Roman numerals, right under Liam's.
My name already occupies his chest over his heart, the first tattoo he ever got. I always love running my fingers over the pretty script, feeling Atlas's chest rumble.
Atlas plants a big smacking kiss on a giggling Liam, "And my little men!"
He walks us around the shop, showing Liam all the cool equipment and introducing us to newer employees, his voice dripping in pride.
"This is my Wendy, my wife. And these are my sons, Liam and Noah. "
Does he still exist?
Because now he's nowhere to be seen.
All I receive now is staying late, don't wait up texts or my own texts being left on read.
My stomach twists when I think of Liam's summer league basketball game three months ago, where his eyes kept tracking toward the entrance of the gym, searching for his dad.
Every time I saw that, I would send another text to Atlas:
Where are you?
Are you still coming?
The game's almost done.
They won. Liam scored twelve points.
Nothing.
Last month was the catalyst for me scheduling the couples therapy appointment.
One of Noah's paintings was chosen to be featured in Mercy Ridge’s Fall magazine—a colourful piece of a family of four in front of fall foliage, inspired by us.
I'm in the kitchen cooking dinner when I hear Atlas' truck pull into the garage.
"Noah, Daddy's home!"
I smile and wipe my hands on my towel when I hear excited footsteps. Noah sprints down the stairs, holding the painting in his hand.
As soon as Atlas walks through the door, Noah's bouncing around him, vibrating with so much joy that it makes me laugh.
"Daddy, look!"
Atlas glances at the painting once and says, flatly, "Good job," brushing past him and walking toward the stairs.
Noah's smile dies like someone just blew out a candle as he watches his Daddy walk away from him.
Some primal protectiveness spikes inside of me at the sight. I crouch and wrap my arms around Noah, pressing a soft kiss to his hair.
"You can watch a little more TV before dinner, baby."
"Okay, Mama," he squeezes me tight, before quietly walking into the living room, like he's scared of making too much noise now.
The anger flares in my chest as I storm into our bedroom. Atlas is pulling off his socks and half-heartedly tosses them into the hamper, only one of them making it.
My mind is screaming at me to calm down, but my heart is a wildfire.
There's always a fine line I have to walk—firm but not too firm, emotional but not too emotional—because underneath everything is that constant fear: If Atlas ever gets tired of me... where would I even go?
I have nothing of my own.
But my son's dejected face flashes in my mind.
"You know," I say, my voice sharp and startling even to my own ears, "You could have tried to act interested when your son was showing you his painting. He was so excited to show you, Atlas."
I'm proud that my voice doesn't shake, though I can feel adrenaline coursing through my body.
I hate confrontation. I hate fighting. I hate tension.
"Sorry, baby," Atlas says without looking at me, his voice flat. "Busy day. I'm tired."
He doesn't wait for me to respond; he walks right into our bathroom, shuts the door, and clicks the lock.
The humiliation stings, and I feel so small, so stupid, and worst of all—alone.
When I hear the floorboard creak, I turn and see Liam standing in the doorway.