“Mom!”

“MOM,” my oldest daughter shouts.

I close my eyes for a needed reprieve. It’s going to be one of those days. I can feel it. I can feel it all the way down to my bones.

I breathe in deep then exhale on a rush, blowing the air out of my mouth as I wish it would take away the hardship of being a parent with it. If only for just a little while. It shouldn’t be this hard . . .

“Hello,” she continues, only this time her voice is back to a normal volume. But I can hear the irritation even without looking at her. Always so irritated.

What do I do? How do I fix this?

Turning away from the counter, I take in my daughter’s appearance. She’s standing at the entrance to our designer kitchen—that I hate—with her arms crossed over her chest. Her long, dark, almost black hair camouflages her anger. Almost. The eyes show all though. Her eyes are both stunningly beautiful and haunting at the same time. They always have been from the moment the dark pigment shed, and her real color sparkled to life. I remember that moment like it happened yesterday. A strange feeling had pierced my chest, and for a split second, I felt pain, longing even. I had thought I was about to have a heart attack. I think it must have been new-mom emotions. I had them often when she was a baby.

Today she’s dressed in a red and white, checkered flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. It’s unbuttoned over a white tank top with dark blue jeans tucked into her favorite pair of cowboy boots. Why on earth she’s wearing warm clothes this time of year is beyond me. It may be early fall, but it still feels a lot like summer in Tennessee though.

“If you have something to say to me then you need to do so without an attitude, young lady.”

On the one hand, I feel as though I shouldn’t say things like that to her, it only fuels the fire between us. On the other, I can’t sit here and let her speak to me the way she sometimes does.

She pops off at the slightest thing she doesn’t like or at something that doesn’t go her way. It’s her outlet I guess. And maybe I envy that occasionally. I wish I had an outlet for all the things bubbling inside my belly.

Her stare darkens. She hates it when I use pet names. Anything other than her name, or Ev for short, seems to tick her off these days. And people say the terrible twos are bad. I disagree. She was sweet as pie at two.

Slowly the anger fades, being replaced with a sadness that catches me off guard.

“What’s wrong?” My voice turns to motherly concern for my little girl. It doesn’t seem that long ago that she was in diapers crawling around and climbing into my lap just to be close to me, or wrapping her fist around my hair as if it were her safety blanket. I miss those days.

“You promised.” Her tone is an accusation.

Confused, my eyebrows turn inward as I asked, “I promised what?”

“If I got all A’s on my report card, I’d be able to take guitar lessons after school. Why can’t I?” she whines.

I sigh, shaking my head, remembering the exact conversation at the start of her third-grade school year this past August.

“What I said was, ‘I would convince your dad to allow it.’” I knew it wouldn’t be an easy feat. Blake, for whatever reason, hates music and is adamant he doesn’t want anything to distract our children from their education. He and I disagree wholeheartedly on this. We disagree—a lot. Music is often a lifesaver for my sanity, so I understand our child’s need for it. It is often times an outlet—an outlet I feel she needs. I know I do. “Did you say something about it to your father already?” I cringe at the tone of my voice. I didn’t mean for it to come out the way it sounded. Harsh. Accusing.

“Well, yeah. I wanted to start lessons this week.” Her arms fall away from her chest only to be placed on her narrow hips. She’s like me in this way. When she wants something, she wants it’s now, five minutes ago. “Why?” she demands.

Lord help me.

Had I not been able to convince Blake, I had still planned on letting her do the lessons. I just wasn’t going to tell my husband. But I can’t tell her any of this. She doesn’t understand the trials and tribulations of marriage—and she shouldn’t at her age. I pray when she grows up and decides to marry things will be different for her than they have been for me.

I shake my head of these thoughts. I have no business thinking like that and every reason to be grateful for my two girls. And I am grateful—very grateful but sometimes . . .

I sigh, letting my thoughts die with the air coming out of my mouth. “I’ll talk to him,” I finally tell her as I stride over to stand in front of her. I place my palms on each side of her cheeks, then tilt her head slightly up. After I plant a chaste kiss on her forward, I say, “I’ll find a way for you to take the lessons.”

Her frown turns into a small smile. “Thanks, Momma.” I drop my hands, taking a step back.

“Grab something to eat before it’s time for you to leave for school,” I tell her. “Your dad will be down any minute to take you.”

I get an eye roll but choose to ignore it. My relationship with her is strained, but I don’t have a name for what Blake’s relationship with her is. They seem to always be at war with each other these days.

Honestly, I can’t blame her though. It seems nothing either one of us do is ever good enough for Blake Lane; except maybe Emersyn, our three-year-old. She is his pride and joy. To him she is perfection.

While my daughter grabs a granola bar from the pantry, I go back to fixing Emersyn’s oatmeal that she eats most mornings. A minute later the temperature in the kitchen turns cooler. It always does when he enters a room.

I turn my head just as my husband comes up behind me. He places one hand on the curve of my hip, squeezing gently. I’ve mastered not cringing when he does this. “Morning,” he offers before placing a kiss on my temple. “I forgot to give these to you when I got home last night.” I take the prescription bag, that’s stapled close with my birth control pills inside, from him.

“Thank you,” I reply, sitting the white bag on the countertop. I am one day from needing to start a new pack. I never take the sugar pills during the last week. What’s the point? “Are you busy this afternoon? I thought Em and I might come grab you from the office so we could have lunch together.”

He blows out a puff of air that ruffles the back of my hair before moving away from me to make himself a cup of coffee.

“I can’t today,” is all he offers.

“Oh, you have meeting?”

“Yes, Whitney.” His voice is firm. It was a simple question and not one that I meant to irritate him with. “I work. I don’t have time for play dates.”

I catch the angered glare my daughter throws his way out of the corner of my eye before she abruptly turns, leaving the room. I have to bite my tongue not to return a remark that will only piss him off more. My fingers curl around the edge of the countertop, and I have to close my eyes for a few seconds. It burns in my stomach to hold my tongue. It feels wrong. Always has. Instincts tell me to kick him in the dick for the way he just spoke to me, but I can’t do that. I know I can’t do that.

Once the need to lash back is gone, I release the pressure and tell him, “Maybe dinner then? Do you think you’ll be home in time to have dinner with us tonight?” Last night he was late and didn’t bother to let me know until he was in route home—after eight. After the kids were already in bed and dinner long gone.

“Yes, I’ll be home by six thirty. A nice cooked meal would be great.” I watch him take a sip from the travel coffee mug the girls got him for Father’s Day this past year. I’m surprised he still uses it. He wasn’t that thrilled about the girl when he received it. “I’m off. Have a good day doing whatever it is you do.” He grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Not even close. It looks fake. But finally, he turns away from me, heading out.

Relief expels from my body, exiting out my mouth. It always does when he leaves for work.

My head turns toward the door leading to our garage as my daughter yells, “Bye, Mom.” My lips tilt up automatically at the sound of her voice but wanes almost immediately when I hear Blake reprimand her for raising her voice in the house. For that, I grit my teeth.

He needs more than just a good kick to the crotch. So much more.

I am a stay-at-home mom. Always have been since my oldest daughter was born. It isn’t something I love or hate. I enjoy my time with my girls, but I know there is something missing. I just don’t know what.

There’s a void. A part of me feels hollow. And no matter what I have, I know deep down it isn’t enough to satisfy. It’s been that way ever since I woke up in a hospital, years ago, without a memory.

I’ve yearned for my past for over ten years now. Maybe mourned for it even. I don’t know. But something isn’t whole inside me. Then again, maybe it never was, and I just didn’t remember always feeling this way. Still . . .

My thoughts are cut off when I hear Emersyn’s running down the stairs, yelling my name. Time to start my day at whatever it is I do all day.