There’s an unsettling stillness hanging in the air, a silence that blankets our home. If a stranger were to glance through our windows, they might see nothing out of the ordinary — a typical darkened house, seemingly organized. Sure, there’s a sink partially filled with dishes, a basket of toys tucked beneath the coffee table, and the throw pillows are slightly askew, but the overall quiet is what you would expect at 5 a.m.
Yet, I’m wide awake. It’s the silence that keeps me alert, a stillness reminiscent of the eerie calm that follows a disaster. This isn’t the soft gray quiet that precedes a snowstorm; it’s the unsettling lull that descends after a tidal wave has crashed and receded, leaving only destruction in its wake.
How do we navigate this morning after? The morning after a heated argument. The morning after harsh words were exchanged. The morning after I declared my lack of love for you. The morning after I asked for a divorce.
I should clarify — there’s always a part of me that will cherish you, the father of our daughter, Mia; the boy who took my hand for the first time; the 12-year-old who I boldly requested save a dance for “the witch” at a Halloween party (I was the only one in full costume, complete with green face paint and a wild black wig).
I still remember those secret kisses exchanged outside my mother’s house. I still hold dear the handwritten notes you would slip me in class, asking “How are you?” or “How’s your day?” These simple questions, which seem so trivial now, are the very things we can no longer bring ourselves to ask. That’s part of the challenge of falling in love young: as we grew, I lost sight of whether I love you or the idea of you.
And here we are, struggling to converse as we tiptoe around one another. Our morning is marked by an unspoken choreography of avoidance — avoiding each other in the bathroom while brushing our teeth, avoiding eye contact in the bedroom as we don our wrinkled clothes separately.
We don’t meet each other’s gaze, we don’t embrace or even touch. We are both too afraid to bridge that distance. This morning feels like a reminder of how, even after all these years, you hesitate to wrap your arms around me as you once did. There is only one moment of connection before you leave for work — a brief hug and kiss for Mia, and then a quick, one-armed squeeze for me. It’s devoid of affection, merely a formality; the kind of peck you’d give an acquaintance rather than a lover.
As the day unfolds, our texts revolve around mundane topics like work, the weather, or our daughter’s amusing antics. Yet, the depth is missing. We both feel it and instinctively steer clear of the real issues, hoping that silence might somehow heal our wounds. We wish that distance can fix what’s broken.
We resemble two dancers who’ve lost their rhythm, moving through life in a disjointed manner. Over time, as days pass, we begin to regain our footing. Slowly, our conversations become more natural, the tension eases, and meals feel less strained. Still, I wonder if we can truly recover from this — if there’s a way to step back from the edge and revive our marriage.
Then you surprise me by offering to prepare dinner: a grilled cheese sandwich and split pea soup. While the soup just needs reheating and grilled cheese sounds simple enough, I eagerly accept. I bathe Mia, tuck her in, and watch as you finish cooking our meal.
The aroma of burnt toast wafts through the air. I can tell you’ve made a mistake, but you don’t mention it and refuse my help. In that moment, I see you for who you are — the boy who once made me a heart-shaped “steak loaf” for our second Valentine’s Day (because the store was out of ground beef), the man who held me through countless tears when I felt lost, and the one who stood by my side through thick and thin. You are the man who cares, the man who is still trying.
I keep insisting that you don’t love me. I keep asking you to reassure me of your love, to provide proof. But as I watch you cook one of our college staples, I finally see the evidence I’ve longed for. While you may see burnt bread, I see a glimmer of hope. I hold it in my hands and savor it, one precious bite at a time.
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