I keep thinking the same thing over and over:
How did I not see this?
And then the more honest thought follows close behind:
How did I see her every day and still miss her entirely?
Emma has always been like this; strong in a way that hides the cracks. Capable. Reliable. The one who just handles things. I think, somewhere along the line, I started believing that because she could carry it all, she should. That because she didn’t drop the ball, the ball wasn’t heavy.
I was wrong.
Painfully, devastatingly wrong.
I picture her sitting opposite me earlier, arms folded, trying so hard to stay composed. Even then, even in the middle ofthat awful, necessary conversation, I couldn’t stop noticing her. The way her hair had fallen loose from her messy bun, strands slipping down to frame her face. The faint crease between her brows when she’s holding something in. The way she presses her lips together when she’s trying not to cry.
God, that mouth.
I’ve loved that mouth since the day I met her.
People throw the word beautiful around like it’s nothing, like it’s one-size-fits-all. But Emma isn’t just beautiful. She’s pretty in that soft, disarming way that sneaks up on you. The kind that makes people underestimate her. And then there’s the other kind of beautiful; the kind that hits you square in the chest when she’s laughing, or concentrating, or standing in the kitchen in old leggings with her hair scraped up, utterly unaware of herself.
Her dimples still undo me.
They always have.
They appear when she smiles properly, the real smile, the one that reaches her eyes. And when I see them, it feels like a reward. Like I’ve done something right. Like I’ve earned that smile.
But lately, I haven’t been earning it.
And that’s on me.
I think about her body, too. How she spoke about it with such cruelty toward herself that it made my chest ache. The way she called it “in-between,” like it’s some unfinished thing, something not worthy of admiration.
If only she could see what I see.
Her body tells the story of our life. Of creating our children. Of surviving exhaustion and stress and sacrifice. Her hips, soft and strong, that curve in a way that feels like home when I pull her close. Her stomach, God, her stomach, that she tries to hide, that she pinches at in the mirror with disdain. I love it. I love the softness there, the way it moves under my hands, the way it proves she’s real.
Her thighs. Powerful. Beautiful. The way they fit perfectly around my waist when she straddles me, the way they ground me.
Her breasts, fuller than they used to be, heavy with life and change. The way she turns away when she undresses now breaks something in me, because I want to worship her, not watch her hide.
And her back; slender, elegant, the small dip at the base of it that my hand seems to find instinctively every time. The place she melts when I touch her there. The place I haven’t touched enough.
I hate that she thinks I don’t desire her.
I hate that I’ve let silence convince her of something so far from the truth.
The truth is, I’m borderline obsessed with her.
I always have been.
I think about her when I’m not with her. I notice the smell of her shampoo lingering on my pillow when she’s already left for the school run. I feel it when she brushes past me in the hallway, when her hand briefly touches my arm and sends a jolt through me that I pretend not to feel because I don’t want to pressure her.
I watch her more than she realises.
The way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s thinking. The way she hums absentmindedly when she’s making dinner. The way she talks to the kids; firm but kind, endlessly patient in a way that makes me both admire her and feel like I’m falling short.
She is the best mother I know.
