17. Coping Mechanisms #3
Reid will call soon—we have our scheduled check-ins now.
We said we’d try Wednesdays and Sundays.
And today is Wednesday. I’m supposed to be ready for that.
I’m supposed to show up like I’m okay, because I don’t want him panicking or feeling worse than he already does.
He’s in college, juggling classes and practice and papers and trying to be present in a relationship he can’t physically be in most of the time.
But today, the idea of pretending I’m fine feels impossible. When the phone finally buzzes and his name flashes across the screen, my breath stutters. I swipe to answer.
“Hey,” he says, voice warm. “You home? How’s the little monster?”
I swallow. “He’s good. Playing.”
“You sound tired,” Reid says. “Long day?”
“Yeah,” I whisper.
“What happened?” he asks gently.
I close my eyes. I could downplay it. I could joke. I could say, Oh you know, just toddler chaos, no big deal. But Mom’s words are still echoing.
Love needs more than logistics.
So I don’t deflect.
“It was rough,” I admit. “Daycare was closed. I had to take Liam to work. He cried in the middle of a sprint review. Someone made a comment about young parents being unreliable in high-pressure jobs. And I just… I couldn’t shake it off today.”
Reid goes quiet for a second. Not silent—just… listening.
“I’m sorry,” he says finally. “That sounds awful.”
“It wasn’t awful, it was just…” I scrub a hand over my face. “A lot. Everything feels like a lot lately.”
I hear shuffling on the other end, like he’s sitting up straighter.
“Mills,” he says softly. “Talk to me.”
“I am talking.”
“Talk more,” he corrects, voice steady. “Please.”
I look down at my hands, twisting a dish towel between my fingers.
“I feel like I’m splitting myself in half every day,” I say quietly. “Trying to be enough at work, enough for Liam, enough for you. And I’m scared that no matter how hard I try, I’m going to fail somewhere. Or everywhere.”
Reid’s breath catches—just a fraction, but enough.
“You’re not failing,” he says.
“It doesn’t feel that way.”
“I know,” he says. “But you’re not.”
I exhale shakily. “It’s not just the practical stuff. It’s… the emotional stuff, too. The distance. The pressure. The fact that we don’t get to do the small things together. The normal things. I miss that more than anything.”
“Me too,” he says quietly.
“It feels like we’re always trying to catch up,” I say. “Always patching holes instead of building something solid.”
“Maybe we’re doing both,” he says. “Patching and building.”
I shake my head, even though he can’t see it. “It’s not just the hard days,” I add. “Even the good days are heavy. Like we’re carrying something with us that we never put down long enough to breathe.”
He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t tell me it will magically get easier. He doesn’t promise things he can’t control. He just breathes for a second. Slow. Quiet.
“I hate that you went through all that without anyone to help,” he says. “I hate that I couldn’t be there.”
“You were in class,” I say.
“I still hate it.”
“You can’t fix everything,” I say gently.
“I know,” he murmurs. “But I want to try.”
Liam crawls over and tries to climb into my lap. I pull him up and press a kiss to his forehead.
“I’m tired, Reid,” I say quietly. “Really tired.”
“I can tell,” he says. “You don’t sound like yourself.”
“What does that mean?” I ask, not defensive—just curious.
“You’re… softer,” he says. “Not weaker. Just… honest. The version of you I don’t get on rushed phone calls or ten-second texts.”
I close my eyes for a long moment.
“I’m scared,” I say.
“Of what?”
“That we won’t make it,” I whisper. “Not because we don’t love each other. But because life keeps stacking things on top of us faster than we can take them off.”
The silence that follows isn’t scary. It’s thoughtful. Finally, Reid speaks.
“I think about that too,” he admits. “Not because I don’t believe in us. But because I know how hard we’re working, and sometimes it still feels like we’re drowning.”
“Yeah,” I say, voice small. “It does.”
“But,” he says, “we’re talking about it. That has to mean something, right?”
I breathe in slowly. “Yeah.”
“And we’re adjusting,” he continues. “Making plans. Changing habits. Checking in. Trying not to fight about every tiny thing.”
I laugh under my breath. “We still fight about tiny things.”
“Yeah,” he says. “But now we talk after. Instead of shutting down.”
He’s right. We are trying. Even when it’s messy. Even when it’s slow.
“I don’t want us to break,” I say.
“We won’t,” he says immediately.
“You can’t promise that.”
“Okay,” he says. “Then I’ll promise this instead: I won’t quit. Not unless you tell me you’re done. And I don’t think you will.”
The certainty in his voice steadies me more than empty reassurances ever could. Liam starts squirming in my lap, so I shift him to the floor again. He toddles over to his toy bin and starts throwing blocks out one by one.
“Mom said something today,” I say.
“What’d she say?”
“That I’m more than a girlfriend and a mother.”
Reid is silent for a moment. “She’s right.”
“I know,” I say. “I just… needed to hear it.”
“You’re allowed to be tired, Mills,” he says. “You’re allowed to ask for help. You’re allowed to say when something feels too heavy.”
I press my thumb against the bridge of my nose. “I don’t know how to do that without feeling guilty.”
“We’ll figure it out,” he says. “Together.”
My chest loosens a little. Not fully. But enough to breathe without feeling like the air is catching.
“Can we have a quiet night?” I ask. “No plans. No heavy talks. Just… quiet.”
“Yeah,” he says softly. “Whatever you need.”
“Okay.”
There’s a pause, gentle.
“I love you,” he says.
It lands differently tonight—not warm or passionate or easy. Just steady.
“I love you too,” I whisper. “Even when it feels like everything is too much.”
“Especially then,” he says.
I let out a long, slow breath and lean back in my chair, listening to him breathe on the other end of the line while Liam giggles at his block tower collapsing again. And for a moment—brief, fragile, imperfect—the world feels still. Not fixed. Not simple. But still.
We’re not losing each other. We’re not done. We’re just tired people trying our best in a life that grew too fast. Coping mechanisms aren’t cures. But maybe they’re steps. Maybe this—this honesty, this shaky middle ground, this willingness to admit what hurts—is the first one that matters.