There’s an unsettling calm in our home, a silence that feels almost tangible. If you were to glance through our windows, you’d see what appears to be an ordinary, orderly house. Sure, there’s a sink half-filled with dishes, a toy basket tucked beneath the console table, and throw pillows scattered about, but the house is still — as you’d expect at 5 a.m.
Yet, I am wide awake, and it’s this silence that keeps my mind racing. It’s not the peaceful quiet before a snowstorm; it’s a deeper, more ominous stillness that comes after a tidal wave crashes ashore, leaving devastation in its wake.
How do we bridge the gap on the morning after?
The morning after an argument. The morning after I’ve criticized you, or you’ve lashed out at me. The morning after harsh words were exchanged and accusations flew. The morning after I declared I no longer love you. The morning after I asked for a divorce.
I must clarify that a part of me will always care for you — the father of our daughter, Lily; the boy I shared my first kiss with; the 12-year-old who I boldly asked to save a dance for “the witch” at a Halloween party (yes, I was that girl in full costume with green face paint).
I still cherish those secret kisses exchanged in front of my mother’s house and the handwritten notes you passed to me in high school. They began with simple inquiries like “How’s your day?” — questions that now feel foreign and unasked. That’s the dilemma of falling in love so young: the boy becomes a man, the girl becomes a woman, and I find myself questioning whether I’m in love with you or simply the notion of you.
Facing the Morning After
And here we are, facing the morning after, struggling to find mundane topics to discuss. We engage in an awkward dance of avoidance — dodging each other while brushing our teeth and slipping into our clothes separately.
Our eyes never meet, our bodies don’t draw close, and we don’t dare touch. On mornings like this, I believe you’re just as hesitant to embrace me as you were nearly two decades ago. The only exception comes when you leave for work. You hug our daughter and then me, but it feels devoid of warmth — a one-armed, hurried gesture that lands somewhere between obligation and indifference, like a peck on the cheek meant for an acquaintance rather than a lover.
Throughout the day, our texts revolve around mundane matters like work or the antics of our daughter, but the depth is missing. We’re both aware of it, and so we skirt around the subject, hoping that silence and distance will somehow mend our fractured relationship.
We’ve become two lost lovers, two dancers who have lost their rhythm. Yet, as days pass, we begin to find our footing again. Conversations grow less tense, and meals become less strained. However, the scars remain, and I can’t help but wonder if we can truly recover and restore what we once had.
A Glimmer of Hope
Then you surprise me by offering to make dinner: a grilled cheese and split pea soup. The soup merely needs reheating, and while a grilled cheese sounds simple, I eagerly accept. I bathe our daughter, tuck her in, and watch you prepare our meal.
The scent of something burnt wafts through the air. I know you’ve scorched the bread, but you don’t mention it, and you won’t allow me to help. In that moment, I see you for who you are — the boy who made me a heart-shaped “steak loaf” for Valentine’s Day when the store ran out of ground beef, the man who held me through my darkest moments and told me I mattered.
I keep asserting that you don’t love me, pleading for you to affirm your feelings, to show me your love. Yet as I watch you cook one of our college staples, I recognize the evidence I’ve been searching for. While some might see burnt toast, I see a glimmer of hope. I grasp it, savoring each precious moment, one bite at a time.
Resources for Your Journey
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