As I arrive home from my day as a middle school physical education teacher on Friday, a rental car is parked in front of Alma’s house. We weren’t expecting company, at least not that I knew of. As I walk up the porch steps, Cameron opens the front door and Liberty toddles out to greet me.
“Momma,” Libby cheers as she wraps her arms around my leg.
I lift her in my arms while walking toward Cameron. “What are you doing here?” I suddenly worry we had an editor’s meeting I might have forgotten.
Cameron steals Libby from me. “I couldn’t miss my niece’s first birthday.”
I shake my head. When will I ever learn to expect these family surprises? After dinner a knock at the door has Alma hopping from her chair. Trenton, Taylor, and their families spill into the house. Alma’s grandchildren scramble to Libby playing on the floor.
“Am I the only one surprised here?” I ask Alma.
She explains they planned during the Christmas visit to surprise Libby and me for her first birthday. Tears well in my eyes as I realize the only thing missing will be Hamilton.
Mid-morning Saturday, Bethany’s video call rings my phone. She immediately asks to see the birthday girl. I attempt to chat with Bethany as I follow behind Liberty with camera in hand as she plays with the other kids.
Bethany shares that Troy’s over-protectiveness has reached a new level. At five months pregnant he now worries about pre-term labor, Bethany falling due to the size of her belly, and hurting the baby while having sex. He doesn’t want her driving and insists to drive her anywhere she needs to go. He’s scheduled drop-in visits each afternoon by his and her parents, to make sure she’s okay.
I try to help her understand he’s an excited first-time dad. He’s trying to protect his family and although it’s a bit over the top, he does it because he loves her. I encourage her to express her frustration and for the two of them to plan ways to let him know all is okay throughout the day, while allowing her to continue her daily activities. I mention she could text him often, sometimes even just an emoji to let him know all is well.
With pregnancy hormones always in control, Bethany mentions sending him an eggplant emoji and several others to suggest he hurry home and carry her off to bed. I reprimand her for talking about sex on Liberty’s birthday phone call.
At the mention of my daughter, Bethany complains she had to share her attention today with Alma’s family. I corral my daughter in her nursery allowing Bethany a few minutes of Libby’s attention and to wish her a happy birthday before we end our call.
To ensure no other random phone calls interrupt Liberty’s party, I text Hamilton setting up a call with him after nine tonight when I am alone in my bedroom. This allows me to enjoy Liberty’s birthday without the worry he’ll call and wonder what all the family is doing here this weekend.
Weeks later, the bathroom mirror cruelly reflects my image back at me. With little sleep last night, I opted to skip washing my hair to lie in bed fifteen extra minutes. Dark circles like bruises under my eyes broadcast my weeks of insomnia. I make it through each day with caffeine constantly in hand.
By 8:00 p.m. I’m ready for bed. Once there, sleep refuses to arrive. Some nights I lie with my eyes closed in the dark for hours in hopes of sleep. As that fails, most nights I write. I figure I won’t be able to sleep for hours, I might as well be productive.
My new curse is a mind constantly creating two or more stories at once. The more I write the more story ideas spark to life. For every story I complete two more take its place. I have one notebook containing lists of future story ideas—it’s growing fuller by the day.
I’m proud of my notebooks full of stories. Writing unclogs my head, works through my issues, and helps lighten my dark moods.
A FaceTime call vibrates my phone. It’s Hamilton. It’s been almost a month since our last call. I prop my phone on the pillow beside mine as I answer.
His tired brown eyes and a lazy smile greet me. “Hey.”
“You look sleepy,” I force a smile hoping it hides my own exhaustion.
“I needed to see you before I fall asleep tonight,” he confesses. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“Nope. I haven’t been sleeping much.” I yawn, “How was today’s practice?”
Our conversation flows from our plans for the week, to what little we’ve heard from Athens, to how much he misses me. Hamilton apologizes for how busy he’s been and states. I’m always on his mind. We close each call by sharing an ‘I love you’.
I’m not sure the true meaning of his three little words. Once I believed we were becoming more than friends, as time passes and the distance between us grows ominous although we continue to say, ‘I love you’, I worry the meaning has dissipated.
Opening my phone, I confirm I’m not imagining it. Hamilton’s texts transition to fewer texts and are farther apart. Last week he texted two times and this week we’ve only chatted once.
I scroll further back. As I read our past conversations, I witness our interactions from Adrian’s wedding all sweet and lengthy morph to quick chats of work and school then only a couple of words. Our long texts chats and calls now more often than not read ‘I love you’ or ‘I miss you’. As time passes, we withdraw but continue to let each other know we still think of each other.
It’s easier this way. Although I miss him so much it hurts, for now it’s easier to hide Liberty with fewer calls where he might hear my secret in my voice or written on my face. I don’t like hiding her—I regret keeping my secret. I’m taking the chicken way out to make it easier on me.