They won. Liam scored twelve points.
Nothing.
Last month was the catalyst for me scheduling the couples therapy appointment.
One of Noah's paintings was chosen to be featured in Mercy Ridge’s Fall magazine—a colourful piece of a family of four in front of fall foliage, inspired by us.
I'm in the kitchen cooking dinner when I hear Atlas' truck pull into the garage.
"Noah, Daddy's home!"
I smile and wipe my hands on my towel when I hear excited footsteps. Noah sprints down the stairs, holding the painting in his hand.
As soon as Atlas walks through the door, Noah's bouncing around him, vibrating with so much joy that it makes me laugh.
"Daddy, look!"
Atlas glances at the painting once and says, flatly, "Good job," brushing past him and walking toward the stairs.
Noah's smile dies like someone just blew out a candle as he watches his Daddy walk away from him.
Some primal protectiveness spikes inside of me at the sight. I crouch and wrap my arms around Noah, pressing a soft kiss to his hair.
"You can watch a little more TV before dinner, baby."
"Okay, Mama," he squeezes me tight, before quietly walking into the living room, like he's scared of making too much noise now.
The anger flares in my chest as I storm into our bedroom. Atlas is pulling off his socks and half-heartedly tosses them into the hamper, only one of them making it.
My mind is screaming at me to calm down, but my heart is a wildfire.
There's always a fine line I have to walk—firm but not too firm, emotional but not too emotional—because underneath everything is that constant fear: If Atlas ever gets tired of me... where would I even go?
I have nothing of my own.
But my son's dejected face flashes in my mind.
"You know," I say, my voice sharp and startling even to my own ears, "You could have tried to act interested when your son was showing you his painting. He was so excited to show you, Atlas."
I'm proud that my voice doesn't shake, though I can feel adrenaline coursing through my body.
I hate confrontation. I hate fighting. I hate tension.
"Sorry, baby," Atlas says without looking at me, his voice flat. "Busy day. I'm tired."
He doesn't wait for me to respond; he walks right into our bathroom, shuts the door, and clicks the lock.
The humiliation stings, and I feel so small, so stupid, and worst of all—alone.
When I hear the floorboard creak, I turn and see Liam standing in the doorway.
The sight of my son makes me double-take. He looks so much likehis father—his fists clenched at his sides, his shoulders squared, his brown eyes burning as they glare at the closed bathroom door.
"He's always tired," Liam mutters, resentment dripping from his tone before he turns and stomps into his bedroom.
I jump when I hear his door slam shut, rattling the family pictures that line the wall.
Later that night, I tried to overcompensate, and so did Liam. Both of us praised Noah and framed the painting to hang in the entryway, so it's the first thing anyone will see when they walk into the house. Liam tells Noah,'it looks sick, bud,'which puts a smile back on his face from his brother's praise.
