2. abbi #3
My eyes drop to our bed, and I drag my fingers along Nix’s cold pillow, and better, happier times roll across my mind like a movie reel. Times we shared in this bed—sexy times and times of quiet discussion and connection. Times when we shared our thoughts, hopes, and dreams.
I can’t remember the last time he slept here.
He says he doesn’t want to disturb me with his restlessness, but I hear him cry out from the guest room in the middle of the night when I’m struggling to stay asleep.
It’s more than the restlessness he battles in his dreams. I know he has night terrors from his time in the Rangers, but he won’t let me in to help. He never lets me in.
It seems like a lifetime ago things were great between us. Even though he spent a lot of time overseas on deployments, we made our relationship work. We made up for lost time when he was home. Effort was put in on both sides.
When did it stop?
I can’t place a moment or think of an event that signaled the beginning of the end.
It’s not like we had a huge argument—hell, we don’t even fight anymore—we’d have to communicate in some capacity to argue.
The distance between us grew in small, quiet, incremental ways over time.
It occurred during moments when we didn’t reach for each other.
He didn’t kiss me when he arrived home. And all those nights I fell asleep alone in our bed while he chose to sleep in the guest room.
It was missed dinners and lost opportunities to enjoy a glass of wine and watch the sunset on the back porch.
It was skipping movie marathons together in lieu of overnight security jobs.
It was not being swept into his arms and dancing in the kitchen to our own music.
There were no secret smiles or quickies in the bathroom when the kids were occupied.
No sweet text messages throughout the day and certainly no meaningful conversation.
Small and big gestures of affection disappeared.
I can’t remember the last time he wrapped me up in his arms and kissed my neck.
God, I miss him. Miss us.
It’s like we’re housemates, not husband and wife.
Sadness washes over me for everything we’ve lost.
We started with such promise and hope for a long, happy life together.
We were each other’s firsts in every way, and we promised to put each other first in all things for the rest of our lives.
Unfortunately, that only works when both parties make the effort to do so.
Nix hasn’t put me first since retiring from the army and starting his business.
It’s his number one priority. Here I am, the dutiful wife and mother, always available for my family, yet I’m not given the same level of consideration.
This morning, Nix seemed like he wanted to fix this. But where is he now?
Why am I home alone—once again—ruminating over our marriage?
I bet he hasn’t given us a second thought today.
It’s like once I’m out of sight, I’m out of his mind.
The thought is painful, tightening my gut and curdling my stomach.
His care factor is obviously zero. Otherwise, he would make the effort to be home.
I stomp back down the hall to clear the table.
Tossing the cutlery noisily into the drawer doesn’t stem my ire, nor does slamming it closed.
Grabbing our plates, I scrape the food into the trash and rinse the plates, then stack the dishwasher and set it to wash.
Yanking open the cupboard above the counter, I grab a glass and pour myself some wine, then make my way into my craft room.
I may as well put my pent-up anger to good use.
I stop at the doorway, my eyes landing on the piles of yarn and the already overflowing tubs.
Nix promised to source a storage unit for me so I could clean up in here.
Unsurprisingly, he’s been too busy. I sip my wine and set it on my craft table pushed up against the wall beneath the window that looks out to the driveway.
At least I’ll see his headlights as he approaches the house.
As I gather half-used balls of yarn and sort them by color, my blood boils in my veins, and I’m ready to lose my ever-loving mind the second Nix walks through the door.
How dare he not show up for dinner? Not show up for us!
I’ve drowned in guilt all day for hurting him this morning.
He seemed genuinely upset, and I’ve been second-guessing myself wondering if I spoke in haste.
I honestly thought he’d do everything in his power to convince me to change my mind.
I drop the yarn and peer out of the darkened window at the deserted driveway.
Icy disappointment freezes every empty space inside me as the realization that he truly doesn’t care hits me like an ice pick, and I don’t think I’ll ever feel warm again.
Tears well in my eyes and drop over my lashes.
I sniffle into my wine, then take another sip.
Maybe if I drink enough, I’ll numb the pain a little.