Chapter Two #2
The sight of my son makes me double-take. He looks so much like his father—his fists clenched at his sides, his shoulders squared, his brown eyes burning as they glare at the closed bathroom door.
"He's always tired," Liam mutters, resentment dripping from his tone before he turns and stomps into his bedroom.
I jump when I hear his door slam shut, rattling the family pictures that line the wall.
Later that night, I tried to overcompensate, and so did Liam.
Both of us praised Noah and framed the painting to hang in the entryway, so it's the first thing anyone will see when they walk into the house.
Liam tells Noah, 'it looks sick, bud,' which puts a smile back on his face from his brother's praise.
Atlas didn't seem to notice. He walks right by the painting that's supposed to represent us every day without a word.
Well, you know what?
Fuck him.
Fuck him for neglecting me.
More importantly, fuck him for neglecting our children.
And most of all, fuck me for allowing this to go on as long as I have. I'm complicit in my children's neglect. I'm the parent, I'm supposed to protect them from harm.
Anger spikes inside of me.
Anger at him.
Anger at myself.
I don't deserve this, and my sons sure as hell don't deserve this.
All that I've been doing for the last year has been enabling this behavior in him by making excuses to his sons, his parents, and to myself.
I've tried and tried and tried to talk to my husband, to beg him to tell me what's wrong, to just show up for his sons if she can't show up for me anymore.
But he doesn't make the time to listen.
It's always work. He's always busy. He's always tired.
He gives me nothing to go on anymore.
And by not showing up today, he's shown me that he won't change, that he won't even meet me halfway, to actually fight for this marriage.
He clearly doesn't think we have a problem, especially from the way I had to beg him to even consider couples therapy because I had thought that it would be a good idea for us.
Taylor had told me that a couple of her hair clients had seen couples therapists, even though they had healthy marriages.
It's just like maintaining a car, as I described to Atlas when he protested that we were fine. I had wanted to scream that I wasn’t fine with this, but had bitten my tongue enough to taste blood.
I had hoped that the therapist could help me bridge the gap that my husband keeps digging between us. I had wanted help so that we could get back to where we were, or even better.
I wanted to fight for us.
Because I still love him.
God, I still love him so much it hurts.
That's why this is so hard. That's why it took me so long to actually see this.
Because I've loved Atlas Durant for twenty years.
Even when I didn’t know the word for it when we were kids. I've loved him longer than I haven't, and I'll probably always love that man.
I don't think love is the issue, and I don't think love can fix this.
And I cannot—I will not—continue like this.
I know what I need to do.
The resolve settles in me like a weight, not unpleasant, more steady like an anchor. I feel like I've been seeing the world through foggy glasses that I've finally cleaned, and everything is so painfully clear.
I don't have any of my own money, not really. I don't even have my own bank account since we use a joint account to pay the bills, the groceries, house repairs, the boys' clothes, paint supplies, and basketball equipment.
My name is on the account, sure—but the name on the checks deposited is always Atlas Durant.
I need to be able to stand on my own two feet. I need income, and I need to be smart about this.
It all suddenly becomes real that I'm doing this.
I'm actually planning on leaving my husband.
A sob violently rips its way out of my chest. The world blurs as tears overflow my eyes and fall down my cheeks. I fold in on myself, covering my face with my hands as I cry—loud and ugly and free.
A wave of sadness washes over me, like being tossed in cold water without warning.
No one is around to see or hear me break, so I let it all go.
I scream and sob and wail and break wide open.
The word divorce hits me like a kick to the throat.
We've always been Wendy-and-Atlas, said like one word. Ever since we were kids, if you saw me, you could bet that Atlas wasn't far behind.
I used to feel so lucky that I married my best friend, my first love, my only.
We have two sons, we’ve built an entire life together.
I thought I would stay married to Atlas for the rest of my life, both of us slipping away peacefully together surrounded by our children, our grandchildren, our great-grandchildren.
I cry for what we had, for the girl who believed Atlas would always show up, and for the woman who kept waiting and waiting and waiting.
I let myself mourn my marriage.
Then I think of the logistics of divorcing. Just picturing Diane and Emmett's faces when I tell them makes me feel nauseous.
Then I picture telling my sons that they’re going to have to split time between two houses, split holidays, split vacations. Negotiations through custody orders and lawyers.
The thought of missing out on half of my children's lives brings on a fresh wave of tears, of misery.
While it hurts so damn bad, like a searing burn in my chest, it also feels like a release. It’s like pulling a splinter out of your finger, a brief flash of pain and then... relief.
The sky is dark by the time I'm done falling apart, so I grab the blanket, put it in the car, and head home.
The drive is made in silence, no music or podcast playing. It almost feels like driving home from a funeral, except the thing that's died isn't a person—it's the version of my life I thought was set in stone.
When I pull into the garage, I'm honestly surprised to see Atlas's truck already there, and it's just another kick to the gut. Confirmation to me that he didn't care enough to show up.
He saw the reminders, and he ignored them.
So, I'm not caring enough to keep this fight going. I will pour all of my energy into two things from now on—my boys and rediscovering who I am.
When I walk through the door, the first thing I notice are the TV and the smell of greasy takeout.
This morning, I had the thought that maybe we could stop on the way home for dinner, a little date night just us two. That has me slamming the door closed harder than I need to—petty, but it feels good.
I keep my feet heavy as I stomp past the living room, up the stairs, and into the bedroom.
"Baby?" I hear him call from the hallway, and I ignore it.
I'm done. Actually, I'm so past done right now.
I practically rip my engagement and wedding ring from my finger and toss them in my jewellery box. Maybe I'll pawn them for some money.
Glancing quickly at the rest of the jewellery in the box, Mother's Day gifts and birthday gifts of years past from Atlas, I wonder how much I could get for all of it. Not enough to get an apartment, but it would be something.
It would get me started because it's quite clear that I won't be able to leave right away.
My brain is already organizing a to-do list. I need a job with a steady income first, then a lawyer, then I can go from there...
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Atlas standing in the doorway. One of his big hands is braced on the doorframe, his broad body filling the entrance like it always has.
I don't turn to him. Instead, I walk into our closet, rip off my boots, and place them on the shelf. Then I open the dresser, reaching past my normal sleepwear of a t-shirt and panties, I grab my coziest, softest pajamas as a treat.
And you know what? The boys aren't here because I had hoped tonight would be a night for us.
Now, I think I'm going to make it a night for me.
I'm gonna take an everything shower. I'm going to wash my hair and maybe do the deep conditioning treatment Taylor gave me. Ooh, I'll do a sheet mask too. I'll moisturise my entire body with that new bergamot and lavender-scented lotion and maybe even paint my toenails.
That plan puts a small smile on my face.
Then he opens his mouth and ruins it.
"Where have you been?” Atlas asks, his voice flat.
The tone isn't worried, it's worse—he's genuinely confused.
Turning to face my husband, his eyes immediately drop to the ground, like he doesn't even want to look at me.
Am I that grotesque looking... or is it guilt?
Has he done something, and he can't meet my eye because I'll know? Or is it pure disinterest?
For a second, the old version of me almost answers to tell him I was waiting for him at couple’s therapy before I snap my mouth shut.
No.
Why should I even answer? Why should I exert even more mental labour for him?
He should already know where I've been, so he can work to figure it out on his own.
Without a word, I grab my fluffy robe from the hook and brush past him to our ensuite bathroom.
"Wendy?"
I don’t answer, I just close the door and press the lock with a satisfying click.
"Wendy?"
Surprised you even remember my name.
I lean against the door for a second more, calming my pounding heart. Atlas is on the other side of the door, I can feel him there. There’s something inside of me that’s just always aware of his presence. I always joked that I could find him sight unseen.
I almost want him to burst in the door and demand what’s wrong. I want him to show me some emotion. I want him to show that he still cares, that it was all a mistake and he still loves me and wants to fix things.
I hold my breath, anticipation and hope buzzing under my skin, but I hear his footsteps leave the room.
The disappointment tastes sour.
I only allow it to settle for a second, before I turn on our shower and grab my self-care tools—a new razor, body scrub, a soft washcloth, and a hair mask.
When I step into the hot shower, I take my time taking care of myself.
And I continue to plan.