He points at the dogs, “I referred to them. The horses, the dogs, we now have an alpaca and the chickens—our family is growing.”
“But you said…” His intense green eyes flash anger. This is worse than those nightmares when I’m dying and no one comes to pick me up. When did we become strangers? This man… I barely recognize him.
This isn’t just disappointment. It is searing, raw pain. We are living different lives. Our expectations changed, or maybe they were never the same. All I know is that our frequencies have been parallel from one another for quite some time.
And this confirms it.
“I thought that you inferred children,” I say it, even when the words are useless. This conversation is maybe two years old. Perhaps it’s not as old, but it’s overdue. “When I told you I was going to go off the pill, you were happy about it,”
“I don’t see the point of you taking that shit,” he says with such disdain that I actually want to slap him, and I don’t believe in physical force.
“I asked my doctor to prescribe it so I wouldn’t get pregnant, and we could stop using condoms. Not taking it implies having babies,” I snap, and I hate my condescending, angry, and loud voice. I take a few calm breaths. “I told you that too. Every time I get my period you…”
Registering all the times that I’ve come to him to give him the bad news I realize he wasn’t sad. He was avoiding the subject.
“You didn’t care, did you? You actually didn’t give a shit that I was heartbroken.”
I fight the tears, the anger, the disappointment. We need to see this conversation through. When did I lose my big guy? I had a hunch that he was gone, but I was in denial.
“We have never discussed the possibilities of having a baby, or I would’ve set you straight,” he dares to say, and I pray for strength because I’m about to punch him.
“When I see a baby, and I point at it and say, ‘I want one,’ it gives you a clear message that says, ‘I. Want. A. Baby.’ I am implying that I want us to have one. There’s no obscure meaning behind my words. So, are you telling me that you never wanted children?”
He shakes his head. “Yes, that’s what I’m saying. Why would I ever want to bring a creature into this world?”
An hour ago, I could answer the question without prompting. Right now, I don’t even know how to address him anymore.
“You never told me that,” and before he says anything, I add, “Not even when I’ve said, ‘I want one.’ So, if I get pregnant?”
The answer scares me. I’m okay being on my own, but what if he leaves me because I’m having his baby? He’s not with you anymore, the voice of reason screams at me.
He rubs the back of his neck, giving me a stiff smile that hardens his features. “You won’t. It can’t happen.”
“You say it, so sure of yourself. Why?” I ask, bracing myself to hear some childhood tragedy.
Mumps, an accident…why can’t he have children?
“I got a vasectomy years ago,” he says, and I want to slap him because that’s the kind of information you share with your wife—the one who has been trying to have our baby for so long.
“You lied to me,” I accuse him.
“No,” he states.
“By omission,” I retort, and I want to hurt him the same way I am hurting.
It seems like I lost my husband, I’m losing the family he never promised, and I’ve been hard on myself for something he did.
He kept all this to himself—like everything else.
“How long ago did you get the vasectomy?” I ask, because what if he did it when we got married and didn’t tell me.
“It was right after Carter died,” he states, and I stare at him, waiting for more. “I never wanted children. When he died, the whole situation was too fucked up to want a family. I just took care of the issue from the root.”
“Who is Carter?” I ask, because… “Did you have a baby when you were younger?”
My heart breaks for him.
“No. Aren’t you listening to our conversation?” he asks, exasperated.
“You’re not making sense,” I respond.
“Well, I don’t want children. Why would I have a baby? Carter was… It doesn’t matter who he was, okay,” he concludes. “I already knew I didn’t want to be a father, but I did what was best for everyone after he died. While growing up, my grandmother and my grandfather always said, ‘If he had a vasectomy, no one would be having these kinds of problems.’”
I laugh at the irony of this conversation. It’s the first time we are trying to communicate, and I’m learning that this man has been hiding important information from me. I want to ask about his grandparents, Carter, the shit show…but I have the feeling that he will answer, “It doesn’t matter.” Because nothing matters to him—not even us.
“You know what I think?” I ask rhetorically. “I think that you hoped I’d stay quiet and would never ask you for more than you have given me. Maybe that’s been my mistake since we met. You gave me a hand. I took it and gifted you my heart and my soul. You…you never opened up after that.”
“Don’t twist this, Leyla,” his volume is loud, but his words come out shaky.
“Now you’re going to invalidate my feelings,” I challenge him. “That’s how I see it and feel it, Pierce. You gave me a morsel of love. I’m not worth more than sex at midnight, and if I’m lucky, in the morning.”
“What are you saying?”
“I. Want. More,” I almost spell each word, and my voice becomes demanding but not forceful.
“Can’t you be happy with what we have? I mean, why would you want to have a kid? Aren’t you afraid that it’ll come out like your father?”
I gasp and close my eyes, trying to compose myself. There are a few things that trigger me, and that is one of them. I can’t look at him. He knows I live terrified of what Dad did to our family.
And what if I do the same to those who I love?
Every day I work hard to remind myself that I’m not my father, and now, he’s telling me that the one thing I want, children, might end up… I can’t even finish that thought.
“I’m sorry, Ley,” his voice is soft, his body is so close to mine that I can feel his warmth dissolving the fear. “I…you know I lash out with stupidities when I’m upset. I didn’t mean what I just said. This is a hard limit, babe. I know you’re pissed, and I should’ve told you about it. I never meant to hurt you, and now I’m not sure how to fix this—us.”
When I open my eyes, he’s right in front of me. His green eyes are filled with pain. I wish he would tell me more. I’m unsure if I should push him or give us options and a little hope to fix us.
I choose the latter. “What if we adopt?”
He takes a step back, and his jaw twitches. “Okay, this is the part where I have to be hard with you. I love you like I’ve never loved anyone, but if you ask for a kid one more time, this is over.”
“You know how I feel?” I mumble. “Like I’ve spent almost three years of my life with a stranger.”