Jayne
Iwake when his alarm goes off while he reaches over, silences his phone, and rolls away from it.
I give him a moment before I shake him gently. “Rhys, baby, time to get up.”
It’s always been this way. His alarm goes off. I wake up. I wake him up.
It’s my role in our marriage…to make sure he isn’t late. Late to class, late for a shift, late for surgery. I’ve been setting his mornings in motion since we started sleeping together a million years ago.
And now, I do the same for our kids. On time for school. On time for soccer. On time for gymnastics.
When exactly do I get to sleep through an alarm?
When does someone tell me to sleep in, to rest, to stop running for once? When does someone touch my shoulder in the morning and whisper, ”Don’t worry, darling. I’ve got it today”?
Rhys tumbles out of bed and goes straight into the bathroom.
I use the guest bathroom, where I keep a toothbrush to start my day.
I move through the kitchen by muscle memory.
Coffee first, then breakfast.
Eggs, toast, and a banana.
Rhys will be working straight through until late afternoon, maybe later. I make sure he gets something in him so he’s not living off hospital coffee and protein bars, which I also make sure he has in his bag.
The stairs creak as he comes down, hair damp from his shower.
“Morning,” I say.
“Morning.”
His voice is rough with sleep, distracted. He checks his messages as he reaches for the coffee I’ve set out. Black, two sugars.
Does he know how I take my coffee? Would he heat the milk in the microwave before adding it to my cup?
“Thanks,” he mutters. It’s not gratitude, it’s an automatic reflex.
He sits at the kitchen island, scrolling while he eats. Fork in one hand, phone in the other. The only sounds are the scrape of cutlery against the plate and the quiet hum of the refrigerator.
Neither of us mentions last night. Not the argument. Not his insulting apology.
We move on, smooth it over, keep things running,like a patient bleeding out on the table, until…when? Until there’s nothing left to save?
“Big day?” I ask, just to fill the air because I’m suffocating.
He nods, still looking at his screen. “Triple bypass at six. Valve replacement at nine. Then I’ve got that pediatric transplant consult. Kid’s twelve—tiny chest, complicated anatomy. They’ve been waiting weeks to get her on the schedule.”
He doesn’t know when Finn’s practice ends, but he knows his patients’ files.
His tone softens, just a little, as I remember why I fell in love with him. His passion to take care of people.
But then he speaks, and the feeling evaporates faster than disinfectant on skin. “I’ll be home late,” he announces.
“Okay.”
He glances up, finally meeting my eyes. “I’ll try and make dinner. Depends on how the second case goes.”
