"You don’t even talk to me, Ann. You don’t take care of me when I’m sick. You never say anything positive about how I look. You’re always angry. You always snap at me."
All in one day. Not just one punch, but several.
It sucks so bad. Because I have been trying. Every single day, I have been trying.
I hold my tongue. I let the small things go. I tell him he’s right, even when it stings. I make dinner. I take care of everything at home. I do it all so he has space, so he doesn’t feel pressure, so there’s no reason for him to feel the weight I carry.
And yet—this is what I get.
Not a thank you. Not a hey, I see you. Just accusations. Just resentment in return.
My heart pounded. Pounded as I swallowed the words I wanted to say back. Pounded as I realized—I don’t think there’s ever going to be a change.
So maybe I have to accept it.
Maybe this is just how it is.
Maybe I am angry too much. Maybe I do complain too often. Maybe it’s not normal to expect to eat dinner together, or to have help with dishes, or to feel like parenting should be shared. Maybe all families look like this.
Maybe the problem is me.
Luca has been saying “Mama work” a lot lately. He’s noticing. Understanding the concept. He repeats what he sees. But he never says “Papa work.” Not once.
I can’t even remember the last time Jon changed a diaper. But maybe that’s normal too. Maybe this is just how it goes.
But my heart aches. It aches in a way I can’t ignore.
Part of me is screaming to run—to save what little self-respect and sanity I have left. But the other part whispers, You have a child. It’s not just about you.
So I sit here, caught between the two.
Grieving what we’ve become. Grieving what I thought life would be. Grieving the version of me that thought love would always be enough.
Imagining a world where "how are you” is common sense.