22. Strengthening Bonds #3
Work email. Of course. I sit and open my laptop, telling myself I’ll check just one message.
Just enough to clear whatever’s lingering, so Monday doesn’t feel like an ambush.
The moment the screen lights up, my inbox is a wall of unread flags and meeting invites I don’t remember accepting.
I scroll until a new message at the top catches my eye:
From: Donovan (Nexus Dynamics Project Lead) Subject: Excellent work today
I straighten a little.
Amelia, Your initiative on the systems issue earlier was exactly what the project needed. I shared your notes with the executive team. Keep this momentum.
The praise hits harder than I expect. Maybe because it’s been a long week.Maybe because I’ve spent years trying to balance being a good mother, a good partner, and a good employee, and most days it feels like I’m dropping something.
Maybe because moments like this—small recognition, quiet validation—make me feel like I’m not failing as badly as I think.
I read the email again. And again, letting it settle somewhere deeper than exhaustion.
For the first time tonight, my shoulders ease.
I snap a picture of the screen. Not to post. Not to brag.
Just because I want to remember what it feels like not to be drowning.
I hesitate for a second, then send it to Reid.
Look at this.
He doesn’t respond right away. I tell myself he’s studying. Or showering. Or asleep. I shouldn’t expect instant replies. I know that. But the longer the typing indicator doesn’t appear, the more the initial excitement cools into uncertainty.
I go to the kitchen for water, then wander back to the couch, phone still in my hand. I keep glancing at the screen like I’m waiting for a sign from the universe. Finally, after what feels like ten minutes but is probably three, my phone buzzes.
Reid: That’s great, babe. Proud of you.
I blink at the message. It’s… fine. Kind.
Encouraging, technically. But it lands flat.
Like a plate set down without care. Like he answered with the part of him that wasn’t fully present.
Usually he sends paragraphs. A dozen exclamation points.
A voice message telling me I’m brilliant. Something that feels alive.
This feels like autopilot. I stare at the screen a moment longer, trying to decide if I’m being unfair or just honest. I can’t tell anymore. My emotions have been pulled in so many directions this year that sometimes I don’t trust the way they settle.
Thanks.
I type it, then delete it. Then type it again.
I don’t send it. Instead, I set the phone face down on the couch beside me and lean back, rubbing my eyes with both hands.
I try not to overthink it. I try not to let disappointment seep into places already stretched thin.
People are allowed to be tired. People are allowed to be distracted. I know that better than anyone.
But something about it stings. Not because he didn’t say the right thing.
Because I needed him to see me in that moment.
Really see me. I sit there for a long time, listening to the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional car passing outside.
The quiet feels too big—not peaceful, just hollow.
My phone buzzes again. A follow-up text.
Reid: Sorry if that sounded low energy. Today drained me. But seriously… you’re amazing. I mean it.
My chest softens a little. I pick up the phone.
Rough day?
Reid: Yeah. Just a lot. Group project. Midterm review. And I think I bombed the chem quiz.
I’m sorry. That sounds like hell.
A pause.
Reid: I didn’t mean to seem distracted earlier. I really am proud of you.
The words help. But they don’t erase the quiet ache underneath—the part of me that’s tired of always being the one to bridge the emotional gap.
The part of me that sometimes feels guilty for accomplishing things while he’s struggling, even though I shouldn’t. The part of me that’s fiercely proud of him but still worried about how much weight we’re expecting each other to carry.
I know. And I’m proud of you too.
It’s the truth. But the messages leave echoes behind—questions neither of us asks, doubts neither of us voices. What happens when one of us is thriving and the other is drowning? What happens when our worlds move at different speeds? What happens when love isn’t the issue, but timing is?
I shut my laptop and turn off the lights, leaving only the soft glow of the stove clock to guide me to the bedroom. The sheets feel cold when I slip into bed, and exhaustion settles into me like a second skin. My phone buzzes once more.
Reid: Goodnight, babe. Love you.
I Love you too.
Then I set the phone aside and stare at the ceiling, breathing through the mix of pride and pain tangled in my chest. We’re strong. We’re bonded. We’re trying. But the weight of everything—school, work, daycare, bills, distance—keeps pressing in from angles we can’t predict.
And lying there in the dim room, listening to the faint sound of the baby monitor, I realize something I’ve been half-avoiding: Our bond isn’t breaking. But it’s stretching. Farther than it ever has before. And neither of us knows yet what that means.