And that’s not something I say lightly.
She remembers everything. She anticipates needs before they’re spoken. She shows up, again and again, even when she’s running on empty. I see how much of herself she pours into ourchildren, and instead of stepping in to refill her cup, I stood back and let her drain herself dry.
Because she didn’t ask.
Because she didn’t fall apart.
Because she looked like she had it under control.
I see now how stupid that was.
Emma has always been perfect to me. Not in an unattainable, flawless way, but in the way that matters. Perfect in her contradictions. In her sharp wit and soft heart. In the way she can be fiercely opinionated and deeply empathetic all at once. In the way she feels everything so intensely and still keeps going.
I love how passionate she is. How she cares about politics, about fairness, about the world our kids are growing up in. I love that she can’t half-arse anything, even when it costs her.
I love her intelligence. Her mind. The way she sees connections other people miss. The way she lights up when she talks about writing, about words, about stories. Hearing her talk about journalism earlier, about how it was taken from her, felt like someone punched me in the ribs.
I didn’t know she was still grieving that dream.
I thought silence meant acceptance.
I see now it meant loss.
And the thing that hurts the most is knowing that she’s been feeling lonely with me. That the woman I love, the woman I want more than anything, has been walking around feeling unseen while standing right next to me.
That breaks me.
Because I see her. I just haven’t been showing it in the way she needs.
I’ve been lazy with my love. Assumed it was understood. Assumed it was enough to feel it without saying it. Without proving it. Without carrying my share of the weight so she could breathe.
When she said she feels like she’s lost herself, something inside me panicked. Because the idea of a world where Emma disappears under the pressure of everyone else’s needs is unbearable.
I don’t want her to be just Mum.
I want her to be her.
Emma. The woman who made me laugh so hard on our first date that I snorted my drink. The woman who challenged me, who softened me, who made me want to be better without ever demanding it.
The woman I still get butterflies over when she smiles at me a certain way.
The woman I kissed tonight and felt nineteen again with.
That kiss, it wasn’t planned. It wasn’t strategic. It was instinct. It was everything I’ve been holding back because I was afraid of rejection, afraid of adding to her load, afraid of being one more person who wanted something from her.
But I see now that what she wanted was reassurance. Desire. To feel wanted. Chosen.
I can do that.
I will do that.
Because it’s killing me that she thinks she’s anything less than extraordinary.
It’s killing me that she looks in the mirror and sees a stranger when all I see is the woman I fell in love with.
I need to be louder with my love.
More intentional. More present.
