“What are you planning to do if this happens again?” she asks.
I huff, exasperated. “There’s nothing I can do. He doesn’t believe what’s happening matters enough to do anything. It shouldn’t matter. We are married, living together far enough from them, and happy.”
I sigh, “But…why can’t he defend me and say, ‘Respect my wife?’”
“Some battles aren’t worth fighting,” she states.
I look up at her and nod. “Maybe that’s why he’s not bothering with them.”
“Discuss your feelings with him so you don’t keep everything inside,” she suggests. “The key to every successful relationship is communication.”
Well, he should communicate with his family and tell them to fuck off, shouldn’t he? How are they going to treat our kids when we have them?
Chapter Eleven
Leyla
A few months after we moved to the new place, Pierce became distant. His job became demanding. By January, he became a junior partner. Our life changed a lot as his responsibilities and caseload increased.
After two years of marriage, our constant is sex. He might come home late or leave early, but we never skip the daily love-making sessions. Sex with Pierce is always hot, passionate, and sometimes adventurous.
I don’t complain much, but being in charge of the kids all the time is exhausting. He suggests I hire someone to help me. I want to tell him that I might rent a husband to keep me company too. I hate to accept that our relationship is now strained. I want to work on our issues, but how can I do that when he’s absent?
It’s Sunday night, our second anniversary, when I begin to wonder if we are just roommates with benefits who happened to sign a marriage contract. Tonight, we’re supposed to be celebrating. Instead, I am by myself, staring at the melted candles, the cold dinner, and the beautiful table centerpiece I made for tonight.
Daisy and Buster lay side by side next to the table. Not even the dogs are in the mood to celebrate with me.
There are days when not being able to conceive a kid makes me sad. Others, like today, I’m glad because Pierce would miss all the baby’s milestones. He doesn’t even care that I’m not pregnant.
It’s a weird reaction coming from a guy who seemed pretty eager to have a full house when he asked me to marry him. I stopped taking the pill on our six-month anniversary. Nothing has happened yet. My doctor suggested we get tested to make sure everything is working. It could be my fault, since I lost a fallopian tube when my father shot me.
Thank you, Daddy Dear.
The few times I have been able to bring the subject of children into our conversation, Pierce distracts me with sex, leaving me satiated and flustered. Only an infuriating man like him can do both simultaneously.
I want to remind him that he was the one who said we’d have a bigger family, not me. Now it feels like it is the forbidden subject. Or one of many topics we can’t discuss in this house. Sometimes I feel like I live in an imaginary minefield. If I’m not careful with our conversations he explodes—or leaves the room.
It’s past one in the morning when Pierce finally arrives. I don’t want to be that wife, but the first thing I want to ask is if his mistress finally let him go.
I don’t because his only love and loyalty are to his work. Another woman would just be taking his precious time away from his next promotion.
“Is everything okay?” he asks, staring at the table and then at me.
Daisy and Buster begin to jump around him, and he doesn’t even turn to look at me. He offers them a treat and walks with them to the kitchen.
I walk right behind them because I’m over this lack of communication.
“Where were you?” I ask.
“At the office, where else?” he snaps. “I never ask you what you do with your free time. Do I?”
His cold words feel like a blow to my stomach.
Of course, you don’t ask because it seems like you don’t care if I live or die.
“It was our anniversary,” I remind him. “Just thought we could do something together. As a couple. Sure, it’s not Hawaii like last year, but… You don’t care, do you?”
He blinks a couple of times, rakes his hair with his fingers, and sighs. “You have to understand my position at the firm. People are expecting more from me while others—”
“I don’t need a lame excuse. Save it,” I say, waving my hand.
“You don’t give a shit about my job,” he roars. His eyes burn with anger. “This is important to me. If it’s not some helpless or dying animal, you don’t care at all. I need to work harder because people swear I only got the raise for being Mom’s son and not because I work hard. It’s the price I have to pay, Leyla.”
My voice drops to almost a whisper. I look at the floor and say, “Our priorities will never be the same.”
I’m not sure if I’m disappointed with him, the circumstances, or myself. We used to get along so easily. We shared everything. He would talk about some of his cases and even ask for my opinion—not that I know much. Now…there’s only white noise between us.
“I…I’m sorry for fucking up.”
Is he, or is this one of his empty apologies?
I should remind him that most of the employees are part of his family. If anyone is saying shit, it’s his cousins who envy him because he is a better lawyer.
“We…next weekend, it’ll be different,” he promises.
“But it won’t because this is your new pattern. Our new life,” I say, focusing this discussion on us. “You forget, you missed, you can’t…but next time it’ll be different. I spent Christmas alone because you promised your grandmother you’d visit her. You can’t bring me because they can’t accept me. We’re supposed to be a family.”
He tosses his hands up in the air. His nostrils flare. “You can’t ask me to choose between you and them. I’m trying to do my best to please everyone. I’m just one person.”
“Don’t yell at me. We’re having a civilized conversation,” I remind him. “What is your excuse for the baby?”
“What baby?” he frowns.
“We’ve been trying to have a baby, and…well, I’m still not pregnant. The doctor said we should get tested to make sure everything is working,” I explain. “Each time I try to bring it up, you avoid the conversation.”
He exhales harshly and says, “Fine. You want to talk about this baby. Let’s do it. I don’t want it.”
My stomach twists and the oxygen in the room disappears. “You don’t? But we wanted to have children,” I mumble.
He gives me a confused and angry look. “What gave you the idea that I wanted kids in the first place?”
My thoughts come to a complete stop, and I blink a couple of times before I am able to speak. “What?”
“When did we agree on having kids?” His tone is condescending. “At what moment in our relationship did I give you the remote impression that I wanted a child in our lives?”
“When you suggested we go to the DMV and get a marriage license. You said something along the lines of having a bigger house to fill it with kids.”