28. Allie #2
Because yes, technically, I’m not alone. My husband is here. In body, if not in spirit. But it’s like living with a ghost who has excellent Wi-Fi and a gym addiction. He haunts his office, the gym, his room—anywhere but near me.
And if I didn’t know better, I’d swear he schedules his entire day around not having to see me. Because every morning? He’s miraculously up before me, long gone, like a puff of smoke before I can even shuffle into the kitchen for coffee.
But guess what, Rico? I’m not going anywhere. You married me. And if you think you can outlast me in a battle of stubborn, silent endurance? Well, buckle up, sweetheart. You’re about to find out what happens when you marry a woman who refuses to be ignored.
My parents still haven’t responded to a single call or text. Not one. And yes, before you ask, I even went full Jane Austen and wrote my father an actual letter. Like handwritten, sealed with a stamp, and probably carrying enough emotional baggage to crash a postal truck.
I laid it all out too—poured my heart out like I was starring in some Regency-era drama. It’s not you, it’s the life you were forcing on me, blah blah. I thought, surely this would melt him. Turns out, Papa’s heart is apparently made of titanium.
And now? I’m not so sure I made the right call.
Marrying Carlo would’ve been like locking myself in a dungeon with a lifetime supply of bleach baths. The man’s touch makes me wonder if full-body condoms are a thing — and if so, where can I get a 12-pack on Amazon Prime? But at least if I’d done that, I’d still have my family.
Instead, here I am, married to Rico "Emotionally Unavailable" Bennetti, whose family has—bless them—practically adopted me.
Sunday dinners, Wednesday night cooking marathons, random text messages filled with unsolicited life advice from his sisters.
They try. God, they try. And I love them for it.
But no amount of homemade lasagna or overly aggressive biscotti-gifting can fill the mama-shaped hole in my chest.
I miss her. Like achingly miss her. I’d trade every shiny new Amex card, every overpriced handbag I bought to passive-aggressively fill my time, just to sit down at her kitchen table with a mug of coffee and spill my guts.
I want to whine about my husband—this distant, broody blip on my radar—and hear her tell me what to do.
Because if anyone knows how to survive an arranged marriage with a man who looks at you like you’re a chair that keeps getting in his way, it’s my mother.
Except she doesn’t call. No "hey, sweetie." No "you’ll be fine, honey." No "ditch him and come home." Just silence. No texts. Not even a “seen” notification. Radio. Freaking. Silence.
And tonight? Tonight is cooking night. Which, naturally, Rico knows. Which also explains why, like clockwork, he’s suddenly forgotten where he lives. Because God forbid he show up for a family dinner and risk interacting with his wife like a functioning adult.
He hates Sunday dinners, but shows. Every time, he walks in like he’s on death row, staring down the executioner.
But the second one of his nieces or nephews charges at him with sticky hands and a giggle?
Poof. Mr. I-Have-No-Feelings melts like butter on a hot skillet.
Scoops them up, kisses their cheeks, ruffles their hair like some freaking dream dad.
And my ovaries? Standing ovation. Literal applause.
And you know what? I wish I could say that sight didn’t destroy me a little bit inside. Because even though I know if we ever have kids, they’ll get that version of Rico—the soft, affectionate, melt-your-heart version—part of me will still sit on the sidelines, clapping with my consolation prize.
Congratulations, Allie. Your children will get the love you’ll never have. Here’s your emotional participation trophy!
Would I be jealous of my own kids? God, I wish I could say no. I want to say no. But if I’m being honest? Yeah. A little. Because what kind of woman marries a man who can’t even look at her without acting like she’s a piece of furniture he didn’t order?
Oh right. This woman. The one married to a moderately attractive carved statue who runs on caffeine and unresolved childhood trauma.
Vinnie’s driving me to the Bennetti estate and I don’t even bother texting to remind him I'll be out for the night. Why would I? The man knows what day it is. He wouldn’t care if I texted “Off to Canada to adopt a moose. His name is now Rico Jr.” He’d probably read it, grunt, and go back to his computer.
Because that’s us. Married. Sharing a house. Breathing the same overpriced oxygen. Like two strangers awkwardly stuck in an elevator, pretending they don’t see each other while the walls close in.
No talking. No touching. Not even a nod. Just… existing.
And I’m sitting here, watching the city lights blur past the car window, wondering is this it?
Is this my forever?
Two ships passing in the night—except one ship is actively trying to avoid even acknowledging the other. And me? I’m just here, waving a giant "HEY, REMEMBER ME? YOUR WIFE!" flag, while he ducks and hides behind his walls.
Because apparently, in the Bennetti marriage handbook, page one reads:
“When in doubt, ignore your wife until she forgets she exists.”