Still just a baby.
“You find out when try-outs are, and we’ll go for an ice cream after school, okay?” I say quietly into his ear.
He bobs his head. “Not Ginny?” The question is hopeful, and I roll my eyes with a laugh.
“Yes, Ginny,” I rebuke gently.
He groans dramatically, letting me squeeze him one last time before pulling away. “Fine.” He stomps out of the room, but the dark cloud hanging over his head isn’t as heavy as it was. He still doesn’t look at Christopher, though, and his father doesn’t look up from his phone.
“You’re going to be late if you don’t leave soon,” I point out to my husband as I gather the last of the breakfast dishes, stacking them in the dishwasher.
“The commute is a pain in my ass,” he grumbles, finishing his coffee. “I know you wanted to get the kids out of the city, but the last thing I want to do is drive an hour to get home.”
I know what he wants me to say, but I bite my tongue, keeping quiet. There’s a scrape of wood against tile as he stands up, bringing his half-drunk coffee and leaving it on the counter. Christopher presses a quick kiss to my cheek, telling me, “It’s a good thing we decided to hang onto the old place, hm? I’ll stay there tonight.”
He doesn’t wait for a response, shrugging his jacket on and grabbing his leather case. “I’ll call you later,” he tells me as he pockets his phone.
“Okay—” I start to say, but he’s already gone, the frontdoor slamming behind him. I don’t move for several seconds, feeling frozen andcrazed. It’s been six weeks since we moved away from the city, wanting to provide a slower pace of life for our children. It helped that the move meant there was some distance from both of our families, even if they are only an hour away, but the feeling of being slowly suffocated still lingers.
I can’t remember the last time I drew in a full breath. I had hoped this move was going to be the thing that helped. Instead, it has only seemed to make it more obvious that the problem in our marriage isn’t something that is just going to magic itself away.
“Mom!” my daughter yells from her room upstairs. “I can’t find my dance tights.” There’s a two-second pause, and then, “Mom!”
I shake my head with a smile, loving that some things aren’t going to change. “Coming!” I yell back, right as Mase calls from his room, “Use youreyeballs, Ginny! That’s what they’re there for.”
“I am!” she cries back defensively. “They’re not where I left them. Wait. Didyoutake them? Mom, Mase took my tights. Make him give them back!”
“Why would I take your stupid tights?” he asks, completely offended.
“I don’t know, butgive.them. back.”
I pick up my coffee, sipping at the lukewarm liquid, listening as they go back and forth until it escalates, both of them screaming, “Mom!”
By the timeI drop the kids off at school, still bickering incessantly, a headache is blooming at the base of my skull. I head back to the house, but without the kids to distractme, it feels as if the silence is pressing in on me, leaving me with nothing to focus on except the pain.
Christopher and I met while we were at college together. We were surprised by a positive pregnancy test in our junior year, and it just made sense for me to drop out. I always planned to go back and finish my MBA, but he always managed to convince me that being home with the children was more important than any career.
And it is.
But they are both in school now, and I am at a loss for what to do with myself. I thought the move from Ashland to Sterling Creek would be the perfect opportunity to give myself a new purpose in life. Instead, Christopher has vehemently rejected the notion, claiming the childrenneedtheir mother, especially when he is now working later hours and spending more and more time in the city instead of driving home.
I’ve argued that single parents work all the time, and he gave me the most patronizing look, saying, “Well, you’re not single, Lynnie. Can you please put the children first instead of yourself?”
Asshole.
He wasn’t always like this. When we first met, he swept me off my feet. I came from a middle class family, so the idea of someone like Christopher—who came fromtheDelcourts,—being interested in me had been ludicrous. I refused him at first, but he was persistent, hounding me until I eventually gave in and agreed toonedate.
Ten years and two kids later…
When I showed up pregnant, everyone believed I’d trapped him, but Christopher promised we knew better, swearing up and down that the gossip didn’t matter. It probably wouldn’t have, if his own family didn’t believe thesame thing—even after I signed the ridiculous and watertight prenup his father had drawn up.
I pour myself an orange juice and take some Tylenol, deciding that lying down with a cold compress might be the way to go. I’m halfway to our bedroom when my phone chimes. I quickly check the screen, worried it might be the school, but dread sinks low in my stomach when I see it’s Francine Delcourt herself.
I drag in a deep, centering breath before pressing accept. “Good morning, Francine.”
“What’s this I hear about Mason playingbaseball?” she spits out in lieu of a greeting. I blink, surprised she’s heard about it already, guessing that Christopher must have talked to her. “I thought I told you in no uncertain terms that a Delcourt will not be playing baseball.”
“Mase wants to play baseball, and he’s nine. This is his choice.” My voice is even, but she just scoffs rudely.
