The next day I come back to our home after work. Daughter is super excited to see me, and she melts my heart. I take a few moments to inhale her scent. Never again, lady bug.
Husband comes up to me and attempts to hug me. I pull away.
“I’m still not okay,” I say. “I don’t want to trick you into thinking that I am.”
He hesitates and hugs me anyway, although my hug is less enthusiastic. He then spends the rest of the night going out of his way to be nice to me. Suddenly, the details of my day matter. He offers to eat Mexican food for dinner (which he hates). He attempts to make small talk.
I answer politely, but there’s no affection. There’s this burning rage inside of me that I can’t shake. It frightens me. I’m afraid I’ll say something to hurt his feelings, so instead I focus on my daughter. We get through the evening and finally I put her to bed. As soon as she’s down, I say goodnight and begin to make my way to our bedroom.
“You’re going to bed?” he asks, surprised.
“Ok, night night.”
“Goodnight,” I mumble and rush to bed. I just want the day to be over.
At some point, while I’m tossing and turning in bed, I hear the door open. He comes in and stands there for a moment, studying me in the dark.
“Did you need something?” I ask, peering at his silhouette.
“No.” He sounds like he’s about to say something else but then changes his mind. Instead, he clears off his side of the bed (covered by clothes since he hadn’t slept in it for the past two weeks despite him knowing it bothers me). It’s a clear indication that he’s going to sleep there tonight.
I ignore it and fall back asleep. The day is done. So why am I still so angry?