Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 85399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
The evening orchestra of insects and frogs has begun to play outside the window. Their soft rhythm amplifies the tension in the room.
“You can’t want this,” he says. “You can’t want to walk away from the life we’ve built.”
“That’s not the choice I’m making.”
His brows raise.
“I’m not making a choice about whether to walk away from our family or not,” I say. “I’m choosing to have a life. To not feel like an afterthought, like . . . an actress in the background of your life that gets to come onstage every now and then and say a line before exiting stage left.”
The words topple from my lips. Jack, for his part, stands silently. Whether he listens to what I’m saying, I’m not sure. He might be using the time to construct his next argument instead of hearing mine. That would be par for the course. But to his credit, he doesn’t try to interject. So I keep going.
“Think about it,” I say, releasing the chair. “What have you done in the last twenty years?” I pause, waiting on a response that doesn’t come. “Okay, I’ll help you. You’ve started a business that you’ve wanted to start since you were a teenager. Every day, you get up and go work on your passion. Yes, you make money and take care of your family—I’m not taking anything away from that. But you get to do it while working on cars. You chose that.”
He nods carefully.
I pace the kitchen. “You coached Michael in wrestling for a few years, but now you don’t have time. You have a ton of people that you go out with for lunch because you have to. How often do you go to lunch because you feel like it? How often do you hop in the truck with one of your buddies to go check out a car and talk and catch up on the way? When was the last time you thought about calling me and seeing if I’m free for lunch?”
His face falls.
“You dictate your own schedule, and it rarely, if ever, coincides with mine. Oh—you’re on the town business board, which you love, and I’m happy for you. Your life is rich with choices and options and opportunities and friends and fulfillment. It overflows with shit that you get to decide, that fulfills you.” I gasp a breath. I can’t believe these words are finding air. “But those options? Those all-consuming things? They don’t include me. And they haven’t for a long damn time.”
He runs a hand down his face, his eyes wide. I should stop. I’ve said enough things that I’ll probably regret later, but I can’t. The words keep coming.
“You have the privilege of doing those things—why? Because everything else in your life is taken care of. All of that tedious, tasky stuff like bills and laundry and science projects and fighting with the insurance company over Maddie’s braces—guess who gets the pleasure of doing that?”
His chest rises and falls, but he doesn’t speak.
“Me,” I say, pointing at myself. I stop next to the pantry. “You have the luxury of creating a life because I’ve taken all the pressure off you otherwise.”
Jack’s eyes widen.
“I’m not complaining about being a mother. I realize that I had the luxury of staying home with the kids because you took the financial pressure off of me. I get that. I appreciate that. But when did becoming a mother mean I had to give up everything else? When did it become an exclusive choice: ‘Be a mother, but that’s all you can be’?”
I pause, heaving a breath and giving him a chance to respond. He doesn’t.
“I have given my life to you and the kids, Jack. And I don’t even care that no one sees it. I don’t want a ‘Thank you’ or an ‘Attagirl.’ It’s truly my pleasure. But when did you forget about us, Jack? When did it stop occurring to you to want time with me? Because it’s as though somewhere along the line, I became an accessory to your life. Not your partner, your best friend. An invisible person that keeps you going behind the scenes. And I just can’t . . . I want . . . what I want, what I need, is for someone to just . . . see me.”
Tears fog my eyes again. I bite my cheek in a futile attempt at stopping them from falling.
We’ve never gotten here—never gotten to the true crux of the matter. We’ve had pieces of this conversation, scattered over the course of many years. Spewed with anger. Spat with bitterness and snide remarks. But we always end up bickering, cutting one another off, and rolling our eyes before we ever get to the point.
I gasp a breath, the air filling my lungs more easily than it has in a long time. My heart beats unencumbered. With the truth now hanging between us—reality raw and true—I’m able to stand a little taller . . . and freer.