Dear Husband,
I know there is a part of you that wanted children, but has remained with me even knowing I can never give them to you. I also know you realize that I am lying when I say I never wanted them. You see the pain and yet you let me lie anyway…
-B.
Letter
USA
Married 11 years
9 years ago
Greg
We were in a Wal-Mart on the outskirts of Chicago, standing in the checkout line, and I was silently debating which was worse: waiting in a Wal-Mart checkout line, having my backside spanked with a tire iron, or giving myself a root canal.
Seemingly out of nowhere, Fiona started to cry.
My eyes cut to her. She was making every attempt to hide her tears. Her back to me, she stood as though she were a statue. Still, I heard the sniffles.
“Fe?”
She shook her head then lowered her chin to her chest.
I lifted an eyebrow at her shaking shoulders. My wife was not a crier. Yes, she cried. She wasn’t a robot. Had she been one of those birds who cried during fabric softener commercials, I might have offered a consoling pat on the back. But, as it was, her tears were so infrequent I wasn’t physically capable of shrugging them off.
Loading our seven items back into the shopping cart, I wrapped my arm around her, steering her and our unpurchased goods into the greeting card aisle. Thankfully, it was empty.
“Hey.” I turned and pressed her against my chest, alarm and worry making me squeeze her more tightly than usual. I had a sense she needed to be held together. “What’s going on? Are you all right?”
She shook her head. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re crying. Crying is the opposite of fine. Tell me what’s wrong.”
She sniffled again. “I don’t want to tell you here.”
“Why not.”
“Because it’s important.”
I tucked my fingers under her chin and lifted her face to mine, stealing a kiss; true distress clawed at my chest, traveled like a spike down my spine. I didn’t want to guess, or entertain any possibilities. Inevitably, my mind always jumped to the worst possible conclusion whenever I saw her inexplicably sad (i.e. brain tumor).
Even so, I attempted to keep my tone level and calm. “What could be too important for the greeting card aisle? It’s the perfect place to tell me anything and everything. There’s likely a card we can buy afterward for the occasion.”
She huffed a laugh, laughed a bit more, and then began crying again.
Her laughter was a good sign, so I went with it.
“Let’s see . . .” I shuffled us both to the rack and plucked a greeting card from it. “You tell me if this one describes your situation.” I cleared my throat and began to read, “Dear Brother, Many blessings on your fortieth birthday. May your girlfriend bring home that hot girl she works with and suggest a three-way.”
Fiona began laughing in earnest, burying her face against my chest.
I returned the original card, walked us a few steps farther down the aisle, and selected another card at random. “Here’s another. Dear Friend, Thank you for your thoughtfulness. I am so lucky to have you in my life, especially after that time I hit you with my car and salted the earth around your house.
I cracked a smile as I grabbed another card. She was laughing so hard she could barely breathe.
“Dear Co-worker, Get well soon. Sorry about the scorpions in your bed. And the leprosy. And the chlamydia.”
“Stop! I can’t-I can’t breathe.” Fiona gripped the front of my shirt as though she needed my solid frame to remain upright.
I took one more step and picked a new card. “Dear Dad, Happy Father’s Day. I know I’m not your favorite child, but I hope you will . . . you will . . .” I stopped reading because Fiona had stopped laughing.
In fact, she’d grown eerily still, though her fists remained anchored in my shirt. I don’t think she was even breathing.
“Fe?”
She released an audible exhale—as though bracing herself—and titled her head back. New tears shone in her eyes and she looked . . . emotional.
Not sad. Not worried or scared. Just emotional.
And I knew.
“I’m going to be a dad,” I said.
She nodded, her mouth wanting to smile but her eyes betraying the disordered chaos of her thoughts.
I had no idea what she was thinking.
I had no idea what I was thinking.
But I felt like I’d just been punched, slapped across the face. And it felt scary. And good.
I felt like I was the king of the universe, the luckiest man alive.
I felt panic, because I didn’t know how to be a dad, at least not the kind I wanted to be.
I felt a bizarre surge of pride, of accomplishment.
I felt a heady wave of possessiveness, for this woman I loved, for the child we’d made. I felt responsible.
But I did not feel burdened.
And I knew nothing would ever be the same.
CHAPTER 22
Dear Wife,
I walked over to you and asked, “You want to go get a doughnut?”