“I want a divorce.”
The words ring hollowly in my ears, but they’re out. I’ve finally said them. I never pictured myself having to, but it’s done now.
I just wish I didn’t have to say them.
I wish things were different.
How they used to be.
But wishing means that I have some form of hope, and hope has no place in this house or this heart of mine anymore.
“No.” That’s all Leo says, not taking his eyes off the TV.
My own eyes have been glued to the blank profile of his face for the last ten seconds since the words left my mouth.
I thought he’d at least ask why. Finally tell me what has gone wrong between us. Because Lord knows I’ve exhausted my search for answers.
Over the past seven months, he’s closed himself off to me. To our children. To our once happy life together. And he’s never told me why. Why he’s chosen to make me feel so alone. As if I’m invisible even when I’m in the same room as him, sharing the same bed as him, and supposed to be sharing a life with him.
Ten years. We’ve been married for ten years this November. Ten years that I don’t want to throw away. But … I’m desperate. Can’t he see me? Can’t he see what’s happening to me? To him? To all of us?
I thought asking for a divorce would elicit a reaction from the cold, aloof mask he’s so fond of wearing these days.
Apparently, I was wrong.
I don’t really want a divorce. Far from it. I just want my husband back. I just want my heart to stop hurting every time I look at him, and he looks away from me.
My throat burns. I clear it and ask, “Why not?”
He doesn’t answer me. Not right away. Then finally, he turns his head to look at me from where he’s sprawled out on the other couch. Leo’s the kind of handsome that lives inside magazines. The sculpted cheekbones, the square jaw coated in light brown stubble, a head full of messy dark blond hair, and the most piercing blue eyes I’ve ever seen.
“Why, what?” He blinks, looking tired and annoyed.
“Why did you say no?” My eyes beg him for things my mouth is sick of asking for.
Love me. Come back to me. Look at me like you used to. Touch me. Stop breaking me.
He ignores my question, turning back to face the TV and effectively dismissing me. But I know he saw the pleading in my eyes. He just doesn’t care.
After another five minutes roll by, I sigh and get up from the couch. Placing the cardigan I was knitting into my basket under the coffee table, I leave the room.
Walking up the stairs, I can’t help but pause to look at the photos adorning the walls; our family, our children, Leo and I together.
I stroke a finger along the bottom of the black frame that houses an image of Leo and me on our wedding day. I looked so happy, so full of love, and eager to move forward into the future with the man who has his arms wrapped tightly around me. While I’m smiling into the camera, he’s smiling down at me. My finger moves up the glass to touch that smile, wanting to take it from that beautiful memory and force it back on the face of the man downstairs. Because he hardly ever smiles anymore. Not like he once did.
I swallow down the hurt and continue moving up the stairs. Heading toward the kids’ bedrooms, I pick up Greta’s school shoes and her plastic tiara along the way.
I check on Greta first, finding her blankets half tossed on the floor and a myriad of stuffed toys tucked under her arm. Typical. I manage a smile, moving into the room and picking them up, then situating them over her small seven-year-old body. Placing a kiss on her light brown hair, I move out of the room and pull the door halfway closed.
I check on Charlie next, and as usual, I find the complete opposite. His blankets are pulled up to his shoulders as he sleeps on his side. Not a toy in sight. Which concerns me a little, considering he’s only nine years old. A few months ago, he claimed he was getting too old to keep playing with toys. I had frowned, feeling my heart clench at the odd statement. But Leo simply nodded, accepting his request with barely any reaction at all.
Charlie’s always been a little quieter and a little more reserved than his sister is. Whereas Greta has absolutely no issues telling the world her problems and outrage, he tends to keep his problems to himself.
I lean down to kiss his head, smoothing my finger between his brows. Leo and I used to laugh about how he’d always look so serious when he was little, even while sleeping. Tense, almost. Like he’s not happy about not knowing where his dreams might take him when he closes his eyes.
I pull his door closed halfway and pad quietly down the hall to our bedroom. Stripping out of my pajama pants, I climb into bed in the same thing I always wear—my panties and a tank top. Or sometimes a t-shirt.
Leo would always comment about how crazy it made him. Except for the fact that he preferred me in nothing, of course. But with children come changes. Like not being able to sleep naked unless you padlock your door beforehand.
Yes, our Charlie picked our lock with a butter knife about eighteen months ago. Leo and I had jumped apart, and I’d hidden underneath the covers until Leo told him we’d be downstairs in a minute. Thankfully, he didn’t ask any questions—like why was his mother hiding underneath the blankets like a big kid—and simply closed the door behind him on his way out.
I lay awake for what feels like hours, but a quick glance over at the clock shows it’s only been about forty-five minutes. I can’t get my mind to turn off. It feels like it’s been tangled in knots for an eternity.
Have I tried to talk to him? I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve tried. I’ve bought sexy outfits, got my blond hair styled so it doesn’t simply fall to my ass in its old, limp, long, typical fashion. My hairdresser went nuts, chopping it up to my shoulder blades and adding in layers everywhere, so now it has somewhat of an attractive wave to it. But when he got home that night, he looked straight through me. He didn’t even notice.
I’ve talked it to death with Lola, my best friend since college. Has he cheated? Is he having an affair? If he is, or has, then he’s been very good at hiding it. I’ve seen no signs of it, other than his absent demeanor, of course. Just the thought of it makes my stomach lurch over itself. Because despite how bad things are between us, I still love him.
I’m still madly, stupidly, and irrevocably in love with him.
I don’t know how to just switch it off. And I don’t think it works like that.
But, apparently, it works like that for him.
His footsteps travel down the hall as he climbs the stairs then pause in the hallway as he checks on the kids. Something he still does every night, even though he’s happy to ignore them when they’re awake most days.
I roll over and pretend to be asleep before he walks into the room. When he does, he leaves the door wide open—as expected. We haven’t been intimate since earlier this year, but it’s not for lack of trying. It’s killing me. A part of me thinks that maybe if we were, it’d help fix this rift. We could renew this loss of connection if only he’d touch me with more than just a peck on the head each morning before he leaves for work. And that’s if he’s home. A lot of the time, he’ll get up before us and supposedly go to the gym before he heads into the office.
I hear his clothes hit the floor before the bed dips with his weight.
Barely breathing, I wait for him to reach over and hook an arm around my waist to drag me into his strong, warm body. Like he used to.
I open my eyes and stare at the en suite door when it doesn’t happen.
We both lay there, in the dark, not talking, not touching, and not sleeping, just co-existing in the silence that screams louder than any voice ever could.
Then he speaks. “You promised me forever when I slid that ring onto your finger.”
My heart starts pounding dangerously fast in my chest, but I simply retort in a sad voice, “And you promised to love and cherish me always.”
He’s quiet for a few minutes. “We’re not getting a divorce, Dahlia.”
Dahlia. He used to call me Lia, like my family and close friends.
A tear escapes, rolling down my cheek onto the pillow beneath it as I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for sleep to take me away from here.