Not again.
There’s got to be a way… A way to keep their pride in me and give my wife what she needs. I love her too much to consider the alternative.
“Really?” Rachel crosses her arms, the crack in her voice splitting my heart in two. “Then explain it to me. Help me understand why you’d choose to be miserable.”
“I'm no—”
The lie dies in my throat. Because she’s right.
I am miserable.
But I have to hope that it’s going to improve as I get used to this. It has to.
Because how do you begin to separate from something so deeply ingrained in yourself? Something that’s been repeated so many times to you, shown by example, shoved down your throat, so much so that it becomes an inescapable part of who you are?
I don’t think I can.
The sound of the twins laughing drifts in from the living room, punctuated by Océane's gentle voice. The normalcy of it punches me in the gut.
When was the last time I made my sons laugh like that?
“And you’re not the only one who’s miserable,” Rachel continues. “You know I had to get the boys early from school again today? And that they called you first?”
“I must have been in a meeting,” I say before I can think.
The truth is, the knowledge that the boys are struggling tastes bitter in my mouth. And knowing that I put it all on her again—it’s got nausea crawling up my ribcage.
“You know what?” Rachel's shoulders slump. “Never mind. I can’t do this right now.”
She turns away from me. Something inside me fractures. My wife—my anchor, my home, my everything—feels like she’s on another planet. The distance between us stretches wider with each passing day, and I don't know how to bridge it anymore.
I keep saying the wrong thing.
Fuck, I’m too tired to think straight.
My gaze sticks to her as she walks away, her small frame rigid with tension. All I want is to call her back. To tell her that I’m drowning. That every time my boss yells at me, every time I miss bedtime with the boys, every time I see the disappointment in her eyes, I die a little inside.
Instead, the words stay locked in my throat.
“Daddy!” Corey's voice breaks through my spiral of thoughts. “Can you read us a story?”
I look over to find both boys peering around the kitchen doorway, their matching dark eyes hopeful. Behind them, Océane gives me an apologetic look.
“I tried to get them ready for bed,” she says softly, “but they insisted on waiting for you.”
Something warm blooms in my chest, thawing the edges of the cold weight of my argument with Rachel.
My sons still want me. Still need me.
“Of course I’ll read you a story.” I force a smile onto my face. “Go brush your teeth and pick out a book. I’ll be right there.”
They scamper off with pent up excitement. Océane lingers for a moment, her eyes darting between me and the direction Rachel disappeared to.
“I’m sorry about this morning,” she says. “With the juice, I mean. I didn’t mean to make you late.”
“It’s fine. Really. Please don’t worry about it.”
And I do mean that.
