36. Facing Hard Truths Too Long #2
“Because you don’t have to,” he says, voice breaking around the edges.
“I’m your husband. I’m supposed to help you.
I’m supposed to provide something better.
You think I like watching you work yourself into exhaustion while I’m stuck two hours away with exam deadlines and a team that thinks sleep is optional? ”
I look at him—really look—and for the first time I see the depth of his fear. Not frustration. Fear. But my fear sits right beside his.
“You’re not stuck there,” I say quietly. “You chose that program. You chose to stay for the opportunities. I supported all of it. But sometimes it feels like you forget that I’m here holding everything else up.”
Reid runs both hands through his hair. “You’re right. I forget. Not because I don’t care, but because I’m scared. Every time something breaks—work, bills, Liam getting sick—I feel like I should be the one fixing it, and I can’t. And then I feel useless.”
I blink, caught off-guard by the honesty. For a second I don’t know what to say, because my instinct is to soften for him, but softening feels impossible when I’ve been stretched thin for months.
“Why didn’t you say that?” I ask. “Why didn’t you talk to me instead of pulling away?”
“Because every time I tried, it came out wrong,” he says. “Or you were rushing to work. Or Liam needed something. Or we were both too tired to have a real conversation. I kept telling myself the timing would get better, but it never did.”
I shake my head, tears pushing forward faster than I want. “So we just kept pretending everything was fine until it wasn’t.”
Reid exhales, long and defeated. “Yeah. I guess so.”
There’s a pause—one of those heavy ones that usually ends in either apology or damage. Neither of us moves.
Finally, I speak. “Do you know what it feels like to be married and still feel like a single parent?”
His face falls. “Amelia?—”
“I’m not saying you don’t love him,” I continue.
“I know you do. But I’m the one who gets up with him when he’s sick.
I’m the one who leaves work early. I’m the one rearranging everything because you’re in class or studying or exhausted or driving back here.
I’m not angry about the reasons. I’m angry about how alone I feel in them. ”
He swallows hard. “And do you know what it feels like to be working yourself to the bone because you’re terrified she’ll look at you one day and think you’re not enough?”
His voice cracks. Mine almost does too. This is the part no one prepares you for. Not the vows. Not the stress. Not the bills or the late nights or the daycare calls. This—two people who love each other standing on opposite ends of the same problem, neither wrong, neither right.
“We keep missing each other,” I whisper. “Every time I reach out, you’re overwhelmed. Every time you reach out, I’m drowning in something else.”
“I know,” he says. “But I don’t know how to fix it.”
The admission slices through me because it sounds exactly like the thought that’s been circling my mind for weeks. “Neither do I.”
We fall into silence again, but this one feels different—sharper, less avoidable. Reid walks to the arm of the couch and sits down slowly, like he’s too tired to stay standing. I stay where I am, hands trembling just enough that I notice.
“I hate that we’re here,” he says.
“Me too.”
“I thought marriage would make this feel more secure,” he admits quietly. “Like we’d feel closer. Stronger.”
“So did I.”
He nods at the floor, jaw locking once. “Instead it feels like everything got heavier.”
“Because it did,” I say. “We added more responsibility to a life that was already hard.”
Reid looks up. “Do you regret it?”
The question lands like a weight.
“No,” I say immediately. Too quickly. I slow down. “I don’t regret marrying you. I regret how little time we’ve had to figure out how to be married.”
His shoulders lower a little, but the tension stays. “I’m scared, Amelia.”
I step closer. Not all the way. Just enough.
“I am too,” I whisper.
He covers his face with his hands, elbows on his knees. “We’re doing everything we can, and it still doesn’t feel like enough.”
I nod. “That’s the part that terrifies me.”
“Because what if it never gets easier?” he says.
My throat tightens. “Then we’ll have to decide how much of this we can survive.”
His hands fall to his lap, fingers curled. He looks at me like he’s searching for something—hope or reassurance or a version of me who knows how to carry all of this without breaking.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he says.
“You’re not losing me,” I answer, but there’s a tremor in it I can’t hide. “But we’re losing our balance. And I don’t know how long we can keep going like this.”
He closes his eyes. “Tell me what you need.”
“I need a partner,” I say. “Not someone who’s trying to fix everything alone. Not someone who disappears into work or school until he’s burned out. I need you here—emotionally, not just physically on weekends.”
He nods slowly. “Okay.”
“And what do you need?” I ask.
He opens his eyes again, the exhaustion deep in them. “I need to feel like I’m contributing. Like I’m not failing my family. I need you to understand that I’m not choosing school over you—I’m choosing a future where you’re not the only one carrying us.”
I exhale, shaky. “We don’t know how to do this yet.”
“No,” he says. “But we have to try.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks. The room feels too still, too aware of how close we are to something breaking.
Then Reid stands, crosses the space between us, and wraps his arms around me.
I don’t collapse into him immediately; my body stays tense, hesitant, unsure.
But after a few seconds, I let myself lean just slightly, enough to feel his heartbeat.
It’s not forgiveness. It’s not resolution.
It’s two people admitting the truth out loud for the first time.
And somehow, that hurts more than anything we said.
The apartment feels smaller once Reid stops talking.
Not because he’s raising his voice—he isn’t anymore.
It’s the way the words hang in the air between us, sharp enough that neither of us wants to touch them.
He sits on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, head bowed. His breathing is uneven. Mine is too.
I stand by the counter because I can't make myself sit next to him yet. My hands shake as I collect the half-folded laundry I abandoned earlier. I’m not even folding it now; I’m just moving it from one place to another, pretending it matters where the shirts land when everything else feels out of place.
“Amelia,” Reid says quietly.
I stop moving but don’t turn around. I know if I look at him, I’ll cry again. I don’t want to. I’m drained from the fight—drained from weeks of pretending we were fine, drained from carrying pieces of us that feel heavier every month.
“I’m not trying to hurt you,” he says. “I just… I can’t keep feeling like everything I do is never enough.”
That line hits hard, mostly because it mirrors the thought spinning in my own head.
I force myself to turn. His eyes are red, tired, sad in a way I don’t see often. “I never said you weren’t enough,” I tell him.
“You didn’t have to say it,” he replies. “You’ve been upset with me for weeks. Months, maybe. I feel it every time you hesitate before telling me something. Every time you smile at me like you’re trying to cover how disappointed you are.”
“I’m not disappointed in you,” I say. “I’m overwhelmed. I’m trying to keep everything together and sometimes I do feel alone. But that doesn’t mean you’re not doing anything.”
He drags a hand through his hair. “You said it yourself—you feel like you’re raising Liam alone.”
“I said I feel like it,” I repeat. “I didn’t say you don’t care or don’t try. I know you do.”
He shakes his head. “Intent doesn’t matter if it still leaves you drowning.”
The honesty in that makes my throat close. I sit down across from him, not too close, not too far—just enough that we’re not speaking across the entire room. The distance between us tonight is not about where we sit; it’s about everything underneath.
“I hate that you feel like you’re failing me,” I say. “I’m not asking you to drop school or drop your goals.”
“I know,” he says softly. “But I feel like you wish I would. Or that you wish everything in my life could pause until your life finally gets a break.”
“That’s not fair,” I say, but even I hear the hesitation.
“Maybe not,” he admits, “but it’s how it feels.”