“I’m not mad,” I lie. “I just…it doesn’t feel great knowing your first call wasn’t me. And then not even finding out until I get home? That stings.”
“I’m sorry,” she says softly. “I just thought I was being helpful. Taking care of it myself. I wasn’t thinking.”
“I want to be your go-to for everything. Not just emergencies. All of it—the annoying, inconvenient, dumb stuff. That’s marriage to me, Meg. I want you to need me.”
“Mason, I do need you,” she says, voice quiet. “I just thought maybe you needed not to be needed today.”
That stops me.
I shake my head. “No. Never with you.”
She exhales, like she’s been holding it in. “Okay. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I say, even though it isn’t. It will be, just not yet.
The sting settles low in my chest, part jealousy, part hurt, part something I don’t quite want to name. I know it’ll fade. Probably by morning. But right now it lingers.
She gives me a hug, telling me she’s sorry again, and I remind her I love her. We move around the kitchen quietly as she finishes up with dinner, and I try to shake off the last of the tension. The sting’s fading, softening under the normal rhythm of us. The clatter of silverware. The smell of seasoning. Megan humming to herself.
Maybe I’m just tired, still caught up in yesterday’s near-death experience. And maybe this is one of those stupid, tiny moments in marriage that only matters because we love each other too much.
I wash my hands and hang my utility belt up before sitting down at the table to eat. It smells promising, so that’s good.
I reach my hand across the table. Her fingers slide into mine, soft and warm. Her thumb brushes once over my knuckle, and that alone pulls the rest of the weight off my shoulders.
I bow my head, squeezing her hand gently. “Lord, thank You for getting us through this week, for keeping Megan and I safe. Thank You for this meal, for our home, for our marriage. Help us to be able to rest and reconnect this weekend. In Your Name we pray. Amen.”
“Amen,” she whispers, lifting her head and reaching for the food.
“It’s gonna be a good weekend,” she says. “I can feel it.”
“Yeah? Me too.” I smile, grabbing the big serving spoon and dishing the chicken onto my plate. Then I scoop up the mac and cheese with peas. It actually looks good. Which means nothing. I’ve been fooled before.
I start with the mac and cheese. First bite…okay. Edible. Definitely edible. A little grainy. A little gritty. But at this point in our marriage, I’ve had worse.
“It’s good, sweetheart. Thank you,” I say truthfully, moving on to the chicken.
She watches me take the bite. Watches me chew. Watches me chew again. And again. And again.
Her eyes narrow. “Be honest. I know how fussy you are with meat.”
I laugh. “Well…it’s a little dry, but it’s fine. Better than raw.”
And internally I pray she never finds out how close I am to needing a glass of water just to swallow this thing.
“Oh really? I did it to the temperature it said.”
My chewing slows. “What did it say?”
“Two sixty-five.”
I blink. Hard. “For chicken?”
She nods with full confidence, like she’s quoting scripture.
I try not to make it a big deal. “It’s one sixty-five for chicken.”
“Mmm, no,” she argues.
