Wednesdays are supposed to be my evening. The one night a week I get to myself.
I didn’t feel like doing anything though. No Pilates class. Rain pouring outside. No motivation to go anywhere or do anything. Maybe I can ask Jon for some time at home. Read, decompress, or maybe do a Peloton ride.
I texted Jon to let him know there was no class tonight but asked if he could still handle dinner so I could have some time to read and maybe do a Peloton. He didn’t answer directly, just said he’d order food. And he did.
By the time I got home, the food was sitting outside the door. I brought it in. Jon muttered something about not having any hot sauce for his meal, then sat down on the couch and turned the TV back on.
I was trying to get dinner together for Luca—who was whiny, probably because he’s a little sick—and asked Jon, Hey, can you turn the TV off?
He snapped back, I’m tired of hearing Luca, so I want the TV on.
I took a breath. If you want to watch, can you take your food downstairs?
Nothing. He stayed on the couch, watching whatever violent show he had on, while Luca stood there in the middle of it. I don’t know what the science says, but it cannot be good for a toddler to watch people killing each other on screen!
I could feel the fire rising in me.
Not because of the show. Not because of the TV. But because of the sheer lack of effort. The refusal to move, to help, to show up for even a moment.
Luca kept getting louder. I snapped at him.
And suddenly, I was about to explode.
I cleaned up the kitchen, grabbed my stuff, and walked downstairs. Luca followed me.
I sat on the bed, and the moment I was alone, the tears came. I buried my head in my hands and tried to pull it together, tried to keep it quiet.
Then, Luca climbed into my lap. Wrapped his tiny arms around me.
"Sorry, Mama."
And that broke me even more.
Because he did nothing wrong. He has nothing to be sorry for. And yet, here he is, comforting me, like he somehow feels responsible for my sadness.
I feel like I’m failing him.
I tell myself it’s only been a week, but there’s already so much pain. So many moments of feeling unseen, unheard, completely alone in this. And the hardest part? I see no effort from Jon. No shift. No light. No desire to meet me anywhere.
Tonight, I realized something deeper—it’s not just about the imbalance at home. It’s about what he does instead.
TV.
Soccer.
Pickleball.
Padel.
Gym.
Climbing.
Eating out.
Living his best life, right in front of me.
While I struggle to keep my head above water.
I wake up at 4:50 a.m. every day. I go until 10 p.m. every night. There are only so many hours in a day.
And the truth is, I think I’m jealous.
Jealous of how easy his life seems. Jealous of how freely he takes space. Jealous that he gets to just be—while I am drowning in everything.