34. Unexpected Responsibilities Too Long #3
He nods, but his jaw tightens in a way that tells me the conversation is already drifting in a direction neither of us wants. “And you’re doing all of it.”
“I’m her daughter,” I say. “Who else would?”
“That’s not what I mean,” he replies, softer. “It’s just—every time something comes up, you carry everything. Work. Liam. Your family. And I’m here trying to keep up from two hours away.”
His words land in the space between guilt and irritation. I’m too tired to separate which emotion wins.
“I’m not blaming you,” I say, turning down the stove so the onions don’t burn. “I’m just doing what needs to be done.”
Reid hesitates long enough that I hear the unsaid part: Yeah, but you’re doing it alone.
He rubs a hand over his face. “I’m trying, Amelia. I’m doing school. I’m working. I’m coming home every chance I get. But lately it feels like… I don’t know. Like I’m the last person on your priority list.”
The irritation snaps. It’s small, but it’s sharp.
“That’s not fair,” I say. “You know that’s not fair.”
“Maybe,” he says. “But it still feels true.”
I press my fingers against my forehead because if I don’t hold something, the frustration will slip through my voice. “I’m stretched thin, Reid. Mom needs help. Liam’s been sick twice this month. Work is insane because of the new project rollout. I’m not choosing these things over you.”
“I know,” he says immediately. “I know that. I'm not asking you to ignore your family.”
“But?”
He exhales slowly. “But I miss you. And every time I call, you’re helping someone, or working, or doing something you can’t step away from. I barely get you anymore.”
The words hurt because they’re true and because they’re misaligned with the reality I’m living. I’m not bathing in free time. I’m patching holes as fast as they break open.
“I’m doing the best I can,” I say quietly.
“I know,” he says again, gentler this time. “I’m just tired of feeling like the only thing in your life you can postpone.”
I stare at the stove because looking at him hurts. There’s no good response. No compromise hidden in my weak hours. No magic fix.
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
He shakes his head. “Nothing. Forget it. I just wanted to check in.”
“So check in,” I say, trying to soften. “Talk to me.”
But instead of opening up, Reid withdraws. His expression shutters, and I can practically feel the two of us retreating behind our separate walls.
“I should get back to studying,” he says. “You’re busy. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
It’s gentle. It’s reasonable. It still stings.
“Okay,” I say. “Goodnight.”
“Night.”
The call ends, and the silence that follows is heavier than the earlier quiet. It fills the apartment in a way that makes the air feel thicker. I stir the onions too aggressively, swallow the ache building in the back of my throat, and blink fast so the tears don’t fall.
Liam hums to himself while pushing a truck across the floor, oblivious to the slow erosion happening inside his parents.
After dinner, after dishes, after bath time, after verifying my mom took her medicine, after sending a progress update to Eric because I’m behind on work again, I finally collapse onto the couch.
Not dramatically. Just… with surrender. My ribcage feels tight from holding too much all day. My thoughts are a tangled stack of obligations, none of which I can remove without the whole thing crashing.
The apartment is dim except for the kitchen light. I lean my head back, closing my eyes for a second, and just breath.
The distance is growing between us. I want to bridge the distance. But the truth is swirling too close to the surface to ignore: I’m trying too. But trying doesn’t feel like enough lately. I type back slowly. I love you too. I’m just tired. We’ll figure it out.
The lie is small but familiar. We say it because it sounds like hope.
We say it because the alternative is admitting how many pieces of our life are pulling in opposite directions.
My body sinks deeper into the cushions like they might absorb the heaviness.
The guilt, the frustration, the impossible balancing act—I carry all of them because I don’t know how not to.
My mom calls a few minutes later, voice groggy and grateful, reminding me she doesn’t want to be a burden. I reassure her. Because what else can I do? When we hang up, the apartment feels even quieter.
Later, in the dim of the living room, the truth finally settles: Reid feels neglected. I feel unappreciated. Both of us are drowning in circumstances neither of us caused. Neither of us wants to resent the other, but resentment grows in the cracks responsibility leaves behind.
When I finally drag myself to the bedroom, the fatigue is thick enough that I don’t bother folding the clean laundry on the bed. I just push it aside, climb under the covers, and stare at the ceiling.
This is marriage, I think. Not the vows. Not the honeymoon photos. Not the perfect moments. It’s this—the exhaustion, the frustration, the quiet fears that you’re losing each other without meaning to.
And even knowing that, even being fully aware of how heavy adulthood has become, I still want him.
I still choose him. It just feels like choosing him requires more sacrifice than I realized.
As my eyes finally close, the last thought that flickers through me is simple and unsettling: If life keeps pulling us in every direction, will love be enough to pull us back together?
The question stays with me long after sleep takes me.