And then I came home to Jayne’s warm brown eyes. Hurt, tired, accusing.
That’s me being unfair.
Jayne doesn’t accuse. She tries to talk. Tries to keep the peace. She’s a fucking saint.
But she doesn't have her hands in someone’s chest.
I turn off the water and step out of the showercabin.
The mirror’s fogged over, but I can still see the blur of my face.
For a man who saves lives, Prescott, you look like shit.
Jayne used to look at me like I hung the moon. Now she looks at me like I’m blocking the light.
I wipe the mirror and meet my own eyes.
I’m not a bad husband.
I am not.
This house in Roland Park, one of the nicest neighborhoods in Baltimore, is because of me.
Four bedrooms, three baths, and millions of miles away from our middle-class childhoods.
The car in the driveway cost more than my first year of med school. The kids’ college funds are set. The mortgage is practically nothing.
I’ve done what I was supposed to do.
I have fucking provided.
So why does it always come back to this, to me thinking I’m failing, to her making me feel like I am?
Because she doesn’t care about any of that. Money, Security.
She used to, but now all she talks about is balance, partnership, and how tired she is.
I’m tired, too.
But when I say it, I’m selfish.
When she says it, she’s exhausted.
Why can’t she just fucking stay at home so I don’thave to feel guilty about forgetting to pick up my kid or something else just as mundane?
Mark from Vascular was just telling us in the doctor’s lounge how when they had their second kid, his wife retired herself. “Smartest thing we ever did. She runs the house, I run the OR. Works perfectly.”
Granted that we were all men in the lounge that day, but we all agreed with the sentiment. Well, all of us, except for Caldwell, our new ENT surgeon, whose wife is a pediatrician. “We split the school drop-offs,” he said proudly. “Alternate weekends for games.”
Mark laughed. “That’s why your numbers are low, buddy. You can’t be world-class and part-time.”
Everyone laughed.
I laughed, too.
Not because it’s funny. Not at all. It’s just a fact. You can’t be exceptional and still have time for soccer. That’s the rule. Somebody else handles the routine. The details. The noise.
That’s what Jayne’s always been good at—absorbing the noise.
