The clock on the wall ticks, the sound almost mocking as I see that our couple's therapy session was supposed to start twenty-seven minutes ago.
He's still not here.
And I know that he's not going to come.
I texted him. I called him earlier and left a voicemail when he didn't pick up.
The appointment was clearly marked in our shared calendar that I don't think he even looks at anymore. I even put it in the calendar at the garage—the same place I know he looks at every morning, because that's where he sees his appointments for the day.
My mechanic husband is incredibly skilled at fixing cars. He always has been. It's in the Durant blood with three generations of mechanics.
He can easily diagnose complex engine problems, identify the issues, and work patiently to repair them.
If only our marriage were an engine issue.
I am just so,sotired. Mentally, emotionally, physically exhausted and stretched past my limit.
There isnothingleft in the tank for me to give.
"Did you want to continue waiting?" Dr. Anderson asks from her spot across from me, her voice gentle and sympathetic.
The look on her face tells me that she's seen this before.I'm sure at this point, I've just become a statistic amongst the other women in failing marriages.
It makes me a little sick to think of the hours I spent researching this doctor on the computer, comparing reviews with those of other couples therapists in a thirty-mile radius, and calling to schedule the appointment.
Not to mention, finding a time that worked for both of us. I took into account our son’s schedules, Diane and Emmett's availability for babysitting, and even Atlas’ work schedule.
I booked the appointment, then rebooked it when Atlas gruffly told me that he had an important client at that time. And then I had to rebook again for today, when that time didn'twork for him either.
I stressed to him that I couldn't—wouldn’t—rebook the appointment again. This was important, and Ineededhim to show up, leaving it unsaid that this was the last shot for us, for me.
My voice was shamefully plaintive this morning when I reminded him.
"It's the campus across from the Target. Dr. Anderson, her office is number 8 and the appointment is at 5," I remind Atlas, smiling as I hand him his lunch bag, which I packed, and a tall thermos of coffee made just the way he likes.
A rush of excitement spreads through me at the thought of the session tonight—hoping, praying, wishing that something good would come from it.
That something could change tonight, and maybe we could take the first step back to us.
"Yeah, I got it," Atlas says, his voice short, his eyes not even looking at me.
I try not to flinch at his annoyed tone as he grabs his coffee and lunch bag from my outstretched hands and rushes out the door.
No kiss.
No, “I love you, baby.”
There's nothing.
I don’t feel like a wife anymore. I feel like the maid, the cook, the mother. I stand in my spot until my son, Liam, walks downstairs.
“Mama, you okay?”
Blinking, I snap back to it. I can’t fall apart, I’m a mother. I have to get my sons to school, then I have to come home and do laundry, and clean the house.
That’s my job. That’s my only job.
I shake my head at the doctor's question.
