He won’t let me tell him everything about what happened. I understand his need for space, for time to mull it over, but he doesn’t have all the facts. Not yet anyway.
And that’s not good.
Because in my head, if he just knew everything, he’d calm down. He’d see it differently. He’d see me differently.
But how am I supposed to explain when he won’t even look at me?
In front of the boys, he’s the picture of a perfect dad. Smiles. Laughter. Easy affection. For a second, I almost believe we’re us again.
Then the boys look away.
And he goes quiet.
Like someone flipped a switch.
The silence is the worst part. Not yelling. Not anger. Just this careful, polite distance. Like I’m a coworker he doesn’t particularly like but has to tolerate.
Another problem is logistics.
He said structured separation like it came with an instruction manual.
It doesn’t.
Where do we sleep?
I know he said we don’t have to talk to sleep but that’s not all that happens in a bed, now, is it?
Do I swat his hand away if he reaches for me in the middle of the night?
Not that he has.
He hasn’t touched me at all.
The first night, I lay on my side of the bed stiff as a board, waiting for him to either roll toward me or roll away. He did neither. He just lay there on his back; hands folded over his stomach like Dracula.
I stared at the ceiling and counted the seconds between his breaths.
Sixty days.
I don’t know if I’m strong enough for sixty minutes of this.
It’s Sunday today. The storm finally passed, the roads are clear, and life goes back to normal tomorrow, school, work, routines.
Which means this weird bubble we’ve been trapped in all week is about to pop.
Laundry has been piling up, and since I’ve been avoiding Logan like the plague, I haven’t exactly stayed on top of it.
So tonight, I decide to tackle at least one problem.
The only issue?
I hate doing laundry. I hate yardwork more, which Logan does, so laundry’s my nightmare chore.
Still, it has to get done.
I gather everything dirty, mine and Logan’s and dump it all into the washer. I’ve basically been wearing the same clothes for days, so those go in too. Socks, shirts, sweatpants… even the bra and underwear I can’t be bothered to wash separately.
Once it’s all tumbling around, I head back toward the bedroom to put on something clean.
