CHAPTER SEVEN #2
The sound of Ruby crying trickles through from down the hall. Of course. It’s always when I brush my teeth. It’s like they have some sixth sense for the moment I do something remotely for myself.
I head down the hall, flicking the light off as I go. Ruby’s little curls are sticking to her forehead, and her eyes are glassy in the dim nightlight.
“Mummy,” Ruby whimpers, sitting up. “Cuggle pwease”
My heart pinches as I give her the biggest squeeze.
Ruby beams sleepily, clutching her stuffed bunny.
“Mummy,” Ruby murmurs, eyes drooping. “Stay little bit?”
I sigh, quietly. “Just a minute.”
I sit on the rocking chair in the corner of Ruby and Sophie’s room, brushing my fingers over Ruby’s hair. The room smells like bubble bath and that faint, sweet scent kids have, like innocence mixed with crumbs. I watch her chest rise and fall, until it falls into a gentle, slow rhythm.
“Night, Rubes,” I whisper, heading over to Sophie. “Love you to the moon.”
“Wuv you to space,” Ruby mumbles, already half asleep.
Sophie, sweet little Sophie, lays there perfectly tucked in without a single hair out of place. Her eyelashes twitch as she dreams away. I lay a gentle kiss on her forehead. “Night sweetie,” I whisper as I head to the door.
I close the door softly and head for Oscar’s room next. The door’s ajar, and he’s sprawled across the bed like a starfish, one leg dangling off the edge, duvet nowhere near him. The lamp’s still on, and there’s an open book face down beside him; something about dinosaurs. Always dinosaurs.
I brush his hair back from his forehead.
He looks so peaceful when he’s asleep. It’s like all the day’s noise and chaos evaporate, and I can finally see him as the little boy he still is underneath it all, not the whirlwind who refuses to eat anything green or insists that wearing socks is “a violation of his freedom.”
I lean down and kiss him. “You drive me mad,” I whisper, “but I wouldn’t trade you for the world.”
“Hmm?” he mumbles in his sleep.
“Nothing, baby,” I say, standing up. “Go back to sleep.”
My last stop is the hallway again. I pause, listening. Silence. For the first time all day. It’s so quiet it’s almost unnerving. Like my ears are ringing from the sudden lack of chaos.
I peek into the master bedroom. Dan’s already in bed, the duvet pulled up to his chin, one leg sticking out like always.
He’s snoring softly, the steady rise and fall of his chest maddeningly peaceful.
How does he just... switch off? How does he get to close his eyes and check out, while I’m still carrying the weight of everything that happened today and everything that has to happen tomorrow?
I sit on the edge of the bed for a moment, studying Dan’s face in the low light. The shadow of stubble along his jaw. The line between his brows that wasn’t there when we met. His hand resting on the mattress, fingers loose.
He’s still beautiful to me.
That’s the inconvenient part.
Even now. Even like this.
Sometimes, when he laughs properly, not the polite work laugh, the real one, something in my stomach still flips.
Sometimes when he walks into a room in just a T-shirt and joggers, I remember exactly how his hands feel all over my body.
The same body that hasn’t forgotten, even if the rest of me seems to have.
Desire hasn’t disappeared.
It’s just… tired.
I reach out, almost touching his arm, then stop. I don’t know if I’m reaching for comfort or something else.
And truthfully, I have not got the energy for something else.
He shifts in his sleep, turning away slightly.
The small space between us feels bigger than it should.
I slide under the duvet, staring at the ceiling in the dark.
The sound of his snoring fills the room; rhythmic, oblivious.
I turn my head to look at him. I wonder if he ever feels it too.
That ache of wondering when we became these people.
The ones who talk logistics more than laughter.
The ones who share a bed but sometimes feel miles apart.
I wonder if he misses me. Not this version; the one who’s constantly managing the chaos, but the me that existed before. The one who laughed at his jokes, who stayed up late, who didn’t flinch when someone said, “Want another drink?”
I shift, turning on my side, facing him. “Do you ever think about it?” I whisper into the dark. “About before?”
He doesn’t answer, of course. Just another snore, low and steady. I huff a quiet laugh, not quite humour, not quite sadness.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “Didn’t think so.”
I lay there, eyes wide open, the ceiling fading in and out of focus. It’s quiet except for the hum of the radiator and Dan’s breathing. Somewhere down the street, a fox yelps. The house creaks, settling into itself.
I close my eyes, but my mind doesn’t stop. It never does. It loops back through the day; the mess, the shouting, the laughter, the endless repetition of tiny, forgettable moments that somehow make up my whole existence.
And yet, I think, this is it. This is life. Not the shiny version, not the one you imagine when you’re twenty and planning a future. This is the raw, chaotic, beautiful, exhausting reality of it all.
My eyes open one last time.
“Is this it?” I whisper.
The question hangs in the air, unanswered.
Dan takes one large breath and lets out a snore as I lay quietly contemplating my own question.
Maybe tomorrow will be different.
But deep down, I know, it probably won’t.