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I decide to try the next morning. Really try to take control of my destiny like one of the overly simplified quotes I would’ve loved on social media years ago said to do or a speech from that blonde motivational speaker I listened to religiously. I get up early despite having been up half the night—John always swears he didn’t hear her crying and sleeps right through it. But it’s okay. He has work, and I don’t anymore. I’m fine with the domestic responsibilities falling on my shoulders. I shower and put on some actual clothes from the back section of my closet instead of the sweats from my dresser. I manage to scratch together breakfast all while keeping an eye on Margot. When I hear his alarm bleeping through the house, nervous energy bubbles deep within, as if it’s our first date or the first morning on our honeymoon. I don’t know why I’ve got the jitters. Maybe because I know things need to be fixed.
When I was little, Mama used to say you should never work too hard to impress a man. I used to admire her independence—until I got older and realized just how crazy she was at times. She didn’t work to impress her man, didn’t go out on a limb for him, and she died alone. Certainly, no one can completely blame her after all that happened with Daddy. No one except me.
I don’t want to be Mama, even though I think a lot of her advice is sound. I don’t mind working a little to win over John. It has been hard lately. With the baby and spit-ups and exhaustion clouding my mind like a heavy blanket, it’s no wonder he’s feeling neglected. And certainly, all of the craziness going on is just paranoia from my exhaustion. The overworked, overstressed weariness that accompanies regular life does something to a person. Weariness from an infant, nevertheless, is a whole new level. Two months into this motherhood thing, and I’m inarguably maladjusted. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to return to who I was before her. To the Evette who went to brunch on Sundays with her friends, who loved painting, who enjoyed crime show marathons on the weekends with John and a bottle of wine. The Evette who would go dancing and belt out songs in the shower and plan secret, romantic trips to wineries for her husband. The Evette who wanted a million dollars by fifty and who sought titles and advancements in her career. These days, I feel like it’s all I can do to make a piece of toast and sometimes wash my hair.
Guilt creeps in for the inner monologue of complaints. I love what I do. I love my life with Margot. This is what I always wanted. What I needed. I don’t regret anything. Motherhood requires sacrifices, but what you gain makes it all worthwhile, even on the hard days.
This baby is what we both wanted, our shared dream. All of those failed infertility treatments, the shots, the appointments. We lost hope, we lost faith, and we lost ourselves. And then, just when all seemed impossible, she came into our lives and made me believe in our perfect future again. Our miracle baby finally arrived, just in the nick of time. I’ll give up sleep and my career for that feeling every day of the week.
So even when my eyes threaten to shut midday or my body physically aches from stress, I can’t help but smile. This is what I wanted. She is all I want.
The steps creak, announcing John’s arrival on the first floor. The plates are perfectly arranged on our table with his favorite omelet, toast, and a cup of coffee. I even managed to pick a few roses from outside. Romance. Concern. These are the things he needs. This aloofness I’m experiencing is getting to me, but I can fix it. I can fix us. Margot is in her bassinet in the living room, back to sleep, by the time John claims his seat.
“What’s all this?” he asks, looking genuinely surprised.
I shrug, tucking a piece of frizzy hair back. “I know things have been tough lately. Just wanted to do something to remind you that I love you.”
And just like that, he’s back. His soft, boyish grin plasters itself on his face. Those blue eyes peruse me like they have for all these years. That admiration mixed with appreciation I’ve been craving reappears like the prodigal son’s triumphant entrance. I squirm a little under his gaze. It’s been so long since he’s looked at me like this. I almost feel bad for everything.
“Busy day today?” I ask, turning to glance at the bassinet and make sure Margot isn’t fussing. I resist the urge to walk across the room and peer in at her perfect face. I love to watch her sleep. I turn my attention back to John.
He eyes me over a piece of toast. “A little bit. I have some files to review for that upcoming contract suit we have going.”
John proceeds to fill me in on his day’s work. He talks animatedly about all sorts of law terms I don’t understand. I realize I’ve missed this, all of it. The conversations, the mindless chatter. The hustle and bustle of us. The way he invests himself in his work and shares every single detail when he tells me a story.
“And Susan, well, you know how she is. She’s been parading around like some hot shot,” he adds, shaking his head with a smile.
I giggle. “Is she still wearing that godawful orange suit around the office?” I ask, picturing it and remembering all of the nicknames I used to make up with Olivia behind her back.
“You better believe it.” He scrunches his nose up at me playfully, and I return the gesture.
John rambles on about some other topics. I let him go, but in my mind, I’m thinking about the days before Margot, before last year. The days when I’d be getting on my own suit, the days John would blare Aerosmith as we commuted to work together. Once we got there, he’d be off to the legal department, and I’d march off to communications. We’d part at the door with a kiss under the Anderson’s Corporation sign. Lunches in the office, morning coffee breaks. We had it all together. We were climbing the ladder simultaneously, we cheered each other on. Our co-workers used to call us the power couple.
Until one day they didn’t.
Sometimes, on days when Margot is sleeping deeply and the house is silent, I think I might miss those days. The days of having somewhere to be, having a corner office, having work to do. The days when I was stomping forward in my stilettos and commanding respect. Now, I often sport sweatpants that are almost too tight and a T-shirt with a stain on it. I’m unrecognizable as the powerful woman I always was determined to be.
Nevertheless, then I remember the other parts of the painting. I think about those bitchy, snooty women flaunting themselves all the time. I remember the pitiful stares when it all went down as my cheeks burn in anger. I think about the stress and about how the corner office is a good place to cry most days. I can never go back there. I don’t want to go back there. I’m needed elsewhere now. Change is good. Change is necessary. I’m where I belong. Success always costs something, and I’m no longer willing to pay the admittance fee.
As if needing to assert my stance, I rise from the table to walk over and check on the baby. I rock the bassinet gently as she glances up at me. She has John’s eyes. I’ve told him so over and over. He insists she doesn’t, but she definitely does. The shape is a perfect match. I smile. Our precious baby.
“I’ve got to go, Evette,” he murmurs from the kitchen. I turn to look at him. He stands so far away, but even from here, I admire his biceps, the way he wears his suit, the way he stands. He’s not looking at me with the same appraisal, though, like he used to. He’s not. My stomach sinks into the hardwood floor. This can’t be fixed with breakfast, with a simple gesture. The gap between us has been widening for months. It’s not that simple to fix, no matter how badly I want it to be.
There’s no mistaking it. I know him well enough. I’ve memorized his mannerisms. I know everything about him, and so I know this: It’s not in my head. It’s different. Shit, why didn’t anyone tell me it would be this different?
A part of me wants to stomp my feet and tell him he’s an asshole. I want to retreat into myself, into the past, into the darkness so I don’t have to face this. The only thing worse than being in the darkness is being in the light and then falling into the darkness. I used to be on top of the world with him—which makes the fall so much deadlier. I feel the heat rising in my chest as I simmer with resentment. We finally have what we always wanted and he’s tainting it. I want so badly for him to be in this with me one hundred percent, to realize what he’s doing and come back to me. I want us to be that power couple in parenting. I want to get on my knees and beg for him to just be the husband, the father I know he can be. But another part of me, the stubbornly independent streak, doesn’t want to let him ruin this. I want to stay focused on what matters the most, which is being a mother. John always wanted kids, too, but his primary focus was always his career. He and I are different that way. Maybe I just need to accept that. If he wants to miss out on these precious days, that’s on him. I guess over time, we’ll figure it out.
I cross the kitchen and kiss him as I shove the inner monologue aside. His lips are cold and dry. We part ways within a second, the kiss a perfunctory chore and not a lingering temptation to languish in like it once was. The spark has fizzled, and our lips just haven’t gotten the memo yet to quit trying.
“I’ll see you tonight?” I hate how my words are a question and not an assertion anymore.
“Yep.” The staccato word darts off his tongue. A weak promise. A careless word spewed at a stranger. An assurance as mild as the kiss we just experienced.
“Six?” I ask, hating the desperation in my pleading voice.
“I might be a little late,” he replies and then strides out the door without any explanation or apology. Without a second glance. Without anything at all to tell me I’m still his.
Of course you’ll be late, John. Of course you will.
The door clicks shut. He is gone. Gone.
I sink into my chair and stare at the remnants of breakfast as my mind retraces the details I’ve tried to tuck away. Maybe it’s not just me. I get the sense there’s much, much more going on with the man I share a bed with. I think about the crumpled paper pressed between the pages of Crime and Punishment in my nightstand. I laugh a little at the irony. I’ve tried so hard to discount it, but there’s something going on. Something major. He’s different. He’s up to something, and it isn’t just business at work or a loss of interest in his domestic duties. I fight back the tears coming to my eyes.
Be strong, Evette. Don’t try to impress any man. Strive instead to get even. My mother’s words float through my head. She might have been crazy. She might have died alone. But she knew a thing or two about loving and losing. A chill vibrates through my body.
Maybe I’ll die alone despite it all.
Maybe I’ll die here.
Maybe it is, after all, just a lie we’re living.
I leave the dishes and walk over to look at Margot, the one sure thing left in this world for me. The only sure thing, I know, as my heart swells. She hasn’t stirred a bit, so at least I’m doing something right. She’s oblivious to the tension, to the fear. She knows nothing but her mother’s love. I have to fight to keep it that way.